Kindred
by Leafenclaw
Summary: Soulmates!AU. People are born with the name of their soulmate written in their hand. One could think such an obvious cue would make everything easier. Reality, of course, isn't that simple.
1. Part 1

_**Disclaimer: As you probably guessed by now, this show and its characters aren't mine.**_

 **A/N:** A few weeks ago, I got this delightfully abusive private message telling me "Jisbon fans" weren't interested in angsty retellings of the show, and I should consider writing something else – or stop writing at all. I _could_ start ranting about how many different fans are interested in many different things, but then I realised answering with a story would be more enjoyable for everyone _and_ would convey my point better.

 **Warnings for the whole story:** Being an LGBT+ writer, I write LGBT+ characters. There's a lack of those in canon material, so I took some liberties with the sexual orientation and gender of some members of the cast, and made most of the others strong allies. If you don't agree with this, please don't bother reading my stories.

 **Warnings for part 1:** Most of this chapter occurs in the late 70s/early 80s, so please place it in context of time period. Mentions of: Religion, Homophobia (one slur), Death and Suicide, Gambling, Alcohol and Drugs, Abuse (physical and emotional) of spouses and children, and I probably forgot some other things. If any of this triggers you, please stay safe.

 **Spoilers:** Retelling of events alluded to in 3.02 "Cackle-Bladder Blood", 4.19 "Pink Champagne on Ice" and 4.22 "So Long, and Thanks for all the Red Snappers".

* * *

 **Kindred  
Part 1**

She's seven the first time she asks – already a big girl who knows how to read, and of course the letters etched on her palm become something of a novelty as soon as she realises she can make them into a _name_.

"It's a tricky question, Reese," says her mother, sitting on the edge of her bed. "I'll tell you what my mother told me when I was your age, but if you ask your father he'll have another story, and if you ask at school they'll tell you something else. Nobody knows for sure, so you have the right to believe what you want."

"Like when the priest says the world was created in seven days, but Sister Mary Francis says it was millions and millions of years instead?"

"Exactly like that."

She chews on her lip a few seconds before nodding her understanding.

"It happened a _very_ long time ago," her mother starts, smiling – and she settles under the blankets with a grin, because _story time_. "Once upon a time, there was a young Princess who had to marry a Prince."

"What was her name?" she interrupts.

"What do you think it was?"

She thinks about it for a second.

"Sophia. Like my bunny," she adds, hugging the plush rabbit in her arms.

"Alright, then," her mother smiles. "Once upon a time, Princess Sophia came of age, and it was time for her to get married. So the king and queen decided to throw a huge ball for her birthday and invited everyone in the neighbouring kingdoms. Princes and Dukes and Counts and Earls – "

"And other Princesses, too?"

"Princesses?"

"Well, _yes_. It was her _birthday_. It would be sad if her best friends couldn't come!"

"Ah yes, of course. Everyone was invited, and they were all planning to be very kind to Princess Sophia – especially the young men, in the hopes that she would marry them. Then they would become her Prince and, later, the new King. But Princess Sophia was a romantic soul who believed in marrying for love, and she didn't want to be wed to just anyone. So the night before the ball, she prayed very hard that God would give her a sign to identify her true love."

She listens with rapt attention, enlarged eyes going seamlessly from her mother's face to the silver letters in her hand.

"The next morning, when she woke up, there was a name written in the middle of her palm – but the strangest thing was _nobody else could see it_. She realised then, this was the answer to her prayer – this was the sign God gave her so she could recognise her true love. So when came the night of the ball, she waited and waited until she would meet someone with that name – "

"Did she meet him?" she asks excitedly.

"Not that night," says her mother with a grin. "And she was very disappointed, especially when she met a young Earl with the same name as the one written in her hand. But the boy couldn't see his name in her palm, so she knew it couldn't be him."

"But it _should_ have been him. It was his name!"

"Ah, but that's the trick, Reese. Remember when you came back from school one day and told me there was a Tommy in your classes? That Tommy wasn't your brother, wasn't he? And don't you already know boys with the same name as the one written in your palm?"

She looks down on her hand, bites her lip.

"There's a Jane in class C," she offers, unsure. "But she's a girl."

Her mother startles, face ashen suddenly drained of blood.

"You have a _girl's name_ in your hand?" she asks, very quietly.

"I – I don't know? There's two of them."

She frowns, lightly tracing the letters on her skin.

"The other one is a boy's name, but I don't know any Pa – " she starts, but suddenly her mother is hugging her too tightly against her chest, kissing her forehead hard and breathing heavily in her ears.

" _Don't tell your father_ , do you hear me? Don't _ever_ show your hand or talk about the name in your palm, unless one day you meet someone with that same name and you are _sure_ your name is in theirs. Let it be a secret between you two. Alright? _Promise me_ , Teresa."

"Okay," she answers, frowning. "I promise."

And she knows not to ask questions when either of her parents use her full name, so she stays silent until her mother releases her, strokes her cheek with an unreadable expression.

"What happened to Princess Sophia?" she asks then. "Did she ever meet her Prince?"

"Yes, she did," says her mother, smiling sadly. "But he wasn't a Prince. They met the next day when she decided to leave her kingdom to go and look for someone who would see the mark in her hand. When the stable boy helped her on her horse, that's when he saw _his_ name written in her palm."

"The _stable boy?_ "

She crinkles her nose.

"That's gross! Horses _stink!_ "

"Ah but you see, once he took a shower he didn't stink so much anymore, and they were very happy together. But of course, the King and Queen didn't like that at all."

"Because they had a huge ball for nothing?

"That's right! But the stable boy knew how to read and write very well, and he was very good at maths and geography too – they couldn't just say he wasn't fit to be a Prince. So one day, the kingdom's evil Minister said they should pass a new law to force the Princess to marry only a Prince of royal blood. He used a little bit of dark magic too, so the King and Queen would be sure to agree, and they decided to sign it the next day in front of the whole court."

"That's terrible!" she says, hanging on to every word.

"Yes, it is. But Princess Sophia was a clever girl, just like you. The night before the law was signed, she prayed to God again. She was so happy with her stable boy, she wished that all the people in the world would get the same mark as hers, and understand why she didn't want to marry someone else. So she prayed, and prayed, and prayed all night for other people to find a name on their hand in the morning."

"And did it work?"

"Yes it did! All the people everywhere, in all the countries and kingdoms of the world woke up that morning with a name in their hand. Of course, once they understood that the stable boy was Princess Sophia's true love, they stopped trying to push for the evil Minister's law and they held a huge wedding. Princess Sophia became the next Queen, her stable boy became the King, and all was well in the world."

She lets herself fall against the pillows, still staring at the name in her hand. Her mother tucks her in, kisses her forehead – but doesn't close the light yet, because their nightly ritual isn't finished. As usual, she still has questions.

"So, the name in my hand," she asks. "It's the name of my true love?"

Her mother bites her lip, a cautious expression on her face.

"Some people say that, yes. And most of the time, for most people, it appears to be true. But sometimes, Reese, it doesn't work like that. Sometimes the person whose name matches yours will be a – a friend instead, maybe your best friend in the world, someone very close to you that you can't – _won't_ marry."

"Why?"

"Sometimes you won't meet that person for a long time," she explains. "Sometimes when you meet them, they'll already be married to someone else. Sometimes you'll just feel good with that person, but you won't want to kiss them at all."

"I don't want to kiss _anyone_ anyway!" she pouts, and her mother laughs.

"One day, you may change your mind about that."

"But – do you always meet them?"

Her mother kisses her forehead.

"Some people do. Some people don't. But if you're good, if you say your prayers every night and obey the laws of God and men, someday you will."

She closes the lights, her daughter's voice calling to her back before she reaches the door.

"Is Daddy's name on your hand?" she asks, already half-asleep.

"Goodnight, sweetheart," says her mother after a few seconds of silence, shadow of defeat hiding itself in the shadows of the night, before closing the door softly behind her.

* * *

"It's a curse – a trick of the Devil," says his father, spitting on the ground. "Soulmates, _pah!_ There's no such thing. You'll hear stories about true love and the _Great Gift of God_ – but hear me out, son. Those are for _townies_ – suckers, the lot of them. Not for people like us."

He's ten and already well-versed in reading people, even if he doesn't yet dare call them out on their lies. But some are easy to catch, easier than most – and right now, there's a wind of pain stirring the curtain of disdain veiling his father's face.

"I thought the Devil didn't exist," he says in a neutral tone – his need to know the truth at war with his need to thread carefully around the man.

A brief burst of rage glints in the eyes of his father, and he takes a step back in alarm – but this time, instead of rounding up on him as he usually does when he mouths off, his father sighs and rubs his face with his right hand.

The left, he raises up toward him, palm first.

"See the scar there?" he says, anger and grief flashing over his features in quick succession. "See the name?"

"That's mum's name," he says, then frowns. "Isn't the soulmark supposed to be invisible to everyone but – "

"That's because _she's dead_ ," the man cuts him coldly.

His eyes widen – he didn't know that.

"I – I thought – you told me she ran away."

But his father isn't listening.

"When the person whose name is written on your hand dies, it becomes a scar. Look around you – see your Uncle Sean near the new cotton candy cart? He was _born_ with a scar. Samantha over there? She can't even _read_ the name on her palm – says it's in some sort of strange alphabet, no way to make out a word. And her husband Pete, the poor fellow – the name on _his_ palm? _His sister's_. Does that sound like a _gift_ to you, Paddy?"

He spits on the ground again.

"Nah, that's a curse, a trick of the fates. A _virus_ attached to humankind. Just a way to make yourself mad thinking about something that isn't supposed to exist."

"But it _does_ exist," he says softly, almost to himself. "There _is_ a name on my hand."

" _Yeah_ , there's a name on your hand, boy. There's a name on _everyone's_ hand. Doesn't mean you'll ever meet that person, and even if you do, doesn't mean you won't make yourself both miserable together. Better off forgetting all about it."

And it's true that both his parents were miserable together, he ponders – remembering how often his father's gambling and vicious words made his mother cry, how often she would helplessly punch the walls of the trailer after their arguments, nearly tearing their home apart once, or twice, or twice more.

His father still gambles, of course, and his viciousness hasn't lessened since his mother ran away – _died_ , whispers his mind – but there could be some truth to his statement. Just looking at the bare facts would be enough to dishearten anyone.

How can you find one specific person in a sea of billions of people scattered all over the Earth?

 _It's a shame_ , he thinks, slowly going over the letters in his palm.

Teresa Lisbon – it's such a nice name.

* * *

She's twelve when she learns how quickly love can turn to tragedy, and how fragile life is.

Not that those two things are mutually exclusive – but they're still reeling from their mother's death when Tommy comes to find her late one evening, all pale face and red eyes and shaking hands, and she doesn't think twice before scooting over to the side and patting the bed cover. He settles near her, knees drawn to his chest, and refuses to meet her eyes.

"I found my soulmate," he whispers after a while.

"Tommy, that's amazing!" she says loudly, and he glances up in alarm. "What's wrong?"

He chews on his thumb instead of answering, and she flicks his hand to make him stop – because mum is gone and who else would do it otherwise?

"Stop that," she whispers. "It's disgusting."

"Sorry," he says, and starts chewing the inside of his cheek instead.

"What's wrong?" she repeats, frowning.

"It's a boy," Tommy blurts out. "My soulmate – it's a boy's name on my hand."

She blinks.

"I met him today at the youth centre," he says quickly, words tumbling out of his mouth like a waterfall. "His name is Jeremy. He's older, fifteen I think? Wasn't sure at first, so I waited until I could see his hand. But then we played pick-up football, and I saw it, and there was _my name_ on it – so I waited until we were alone and introduced myself."

He takes a shuddering breath, tears spilling from his eyes – and he wipes at them angrily, but they keep coming fast.

"He laughed at me. Called me names."

"Oh, Tommy," she sighs, opening her arms. "Come here."

Face hidden in her neck, he weeps the same silent, painful sobs he cried when they lowered their mother's coffin in the ground. It breaks her heart all over again, and for the very first time she feels the weight of her years falling on her shoulders – because twelve is still young but ten is _younger_ , way too young to already know that kind of rejection. Way too young to already know that kind of grief.

His tears slowly abate, and after a while his breathing becomes more peaceful, even as he stays against her. She never stops rubbing small circles on his back.

"Do you want me to break his legs?" she asks.

He snorts.

"I'm serious," she insists.

"Yeah, I know. You'd do it, too – I know you would."

He takes a deep breath, raises big watery eyes to her and smiles, just a little.

"Thanks."

"Anytime," she answers, hugging him tightly.

They stay silent for a moment.

"I just wish he'd be my friend," says Tommy softly.

"Maybe he'll come around."

"It's like – I don't want to _kiss_ him, that'd be gross. But we had fun before, when we were playing football. We could be like that. Best friends. Or just _friends_. Is that weird?"

"No, it's not," she says, then bites her lip. "Tommy, even if – you know. Even if you _wanted_ to kiss him, it wouldn't be weird."

"Yeah, but I _don't!_ "

"Okay but – I mean, you're _soulmates_ , right? You must have his name on your hand for _something_."

" _I'm not a faggot!_ " says Tommy harshly, bristling.

"Is that what he said to you? What a _jerk!_ My little brother isn't a faggot, you hear me?"

He doesn't answer – averts his eyes instead. She hugs him closer, lets her cheeks rest on the top of his head.

"You're _not_. Don't listen to any word he said."

They stay silent for a while, listening to the wind whistling through the trees, and the wooden floors creaking in the attic.

"Reese, what – what if he's right?" he whispers, so quietly she almost doesn't hear him. "What if God gave me a boy's name in my hand because I'm supposed to like boys that way? What will Dad say?"

She sighs.

"Tommy, I don't care what Dad, the priest or the sisters at school say. I don't care what _anyone_ says, and you shouldn't either. It doesn't matter if you like girls or boys or _both_. You know why?"

"Hm?"

"Because God _loves_ us – He wouldn't put a boy's name on your hand _or_ make you like boys _if He wasn't okay with it_. And if God is okay with it, everyone else should just shut their mouth."

Her brother sniffles but doesn't answer, and for a moment she thinks maybe she should have kept her own mouth shut. He stays against her, though – so she can't be handling it _that_ bad, right?

"You won't tell dad?" he asks suddenly, his voice very small and fearful.

"Of course not. I promise. I won't tell anyone."

"And – can I stay here tonight? I don't want to go back to sleep with Stan and Jimmy."

 _I don't want them to hear me cry_ , is what he doesn't say – but she hears it all the same, and nods.

"Sure. Get under," she says, lifting the blankets.

He cuddles next to her, head on her shoulder, gripping her arm like a lifeline.

"Is your soulmate a boy or a girl?" he asks, voice muffled by the blankets.

"A boy," she says, left hand closing tight on itself.

"What's his name?"

She bites her lip, her mother's warning – _don't ever show or tell anyone, let it be a secret between you two_ – still ringing in her ears. But telling Tommy won't hurt, isn't it? Telling isn't showing, and it's _Tommy_. It's not like he'd blab around – he really has no reason to.

"Patrick Jane," she says after a few more seconds of hesitation.

"Jane?"

"Yeah."

"That's a girl's name."

"Yeah. Mum, she – I think she thought my soulmate was a girl for a while. Remember how she yelled at me last year when I invited Brenda to play and kept the door closed? She thought we were kissing or something."

 _I think she still believed it when she died_ , is what she doesn't say – and it's kind of embarrassing and sad to think about, because she didn't care enough about the issue to clear the misunderstanding when she realised her mother thought she liked girls _that way_ , and now she won't ever be able to clear it at all.

Plus, she isn't sure there's something to clear in the first place.

Boys are fun to be around, but girls are _pretty_.

"That's funny," Tommy giggles sleepily – and _yes, yes it is._

A little bit, at least.

She grins, kisses his forehead – and when his breathing becomes slow and regular, she sighs and closes her eyes.

 _He'll be fine._

Three days later, Tommy learns of his soulmate's suicide attempt – gets kicked out of the hospital by Jeremy's parents when trying to visit, and feels rejected all over again. She tries to help, even goes so far as to pretend to be Jeremy's girlfriend just to try and get through to him. But there's no competing with a family so full of hate – and when they threaten her with calls to the police to keep all and every Lisbon away from them, she can only obey and go back to her brother, hugging him as hard as she can to try and protect him from the world. From being hurt again.

But hugs can't heal wounds as deep as that one, and Tommy is never quite the same afterwards.

* * *

He's fifteen when he decides experimenting with an altered state of consciousness could be beneficial to his act.

That's what he tells himself anyway. The truth would probably be more along the lines of wanting to try new experiences and, especially, wanting to go against his father's orders. Because the clean, innocent boy-scout act is starting to get on his nerves – especially as it gets enforced out of opening hours – and he feels the need for a reprieve.

Winning a few hands against Pete is easy, almost as if he lets him win – though Pete would never do that, _right?_ Requesting beer instead of money is a bit harder – takes guts and stubbornness in pursuit of his plans – but Pete's knowing grin tells him he won't talk about this to his father, and all in well in the end.

And when Sam winks at him and presses a small plastic bag with _funny smokes_ in his hand as he leaves their trailer, well. Who is he to refuse such an enticing temptation?

There's a beautiful little clearing about a mile away from where they set camp, with a small rock formation and a river. The kids found it earlier, but it's nearly midnight now – there won't be kids around at this hour. Confident, large beer in one hand, Sam's joints in his breast pocket, he treks through the sand and trees to his intended spot.

And is dismayed to find it already occupied.

"Oh. Hi," says the girl with a bland smile. "I didn't think people would come here at this hour."

He groans softly and takes a swing of beer instead of answering – that way at least he'll have a taste before his father yells and empties it on the ground. Or over him, depending on his moods.

 _Wow, that's disgusting._

The girl laughs at him gently, while he marvels at the disgustingly bitter flavour.

"I have wine," she grins. "Trade?"

"No way. That thing tastes like Daisy's piss. Trust me, you don't want it."

"It's _beer_ ," she shrugs. "Share, if you don't wanna trade."

"Alright," he relents.

She pats the rock – and he sits, passing on the bottle of beer. She takes a small sip, eyes closed. He's mesmerised.

"You're – Paddy, right?" she asks when she notices him staring. "The Boy Wonder act?"

He hums noncommittally.

"I'm Annie," she says, stretching her hand.

He grins and kisses her hand instead of shaking it, making her blush.

"Pleasure to meet you," he says, holding her gaze.

He already knows who she is, of course – Angela Ruskin, daughter of the owner and all-around carnival princess, seventeen years old and _way_ out of his league. The county fair isn't that large, but she runs in higher circles than he does – they don't usually talk outside of set-up days, when everyone works together to assemble or dismantle the rides.

Not that it matters right now, as they sit side by side in complicit illegality. He lights up one of Sam's joints – offering her the first puff, emboldened by the appreciative glances she sends his way, and watching carefully how she smokes it so he won't look like an idiot when it's his turn.

She still owes him a taste of wine.

"Why did you come here?" she asks, stretching her legs before her.

"To have a drink," he grins.

He's feeling pleasantly buzzed already, whether it be the funny smokes or the beautiful girl by his side.

"No, I mean – you could drink _back there_ , why did you come _here?_ In this clearing, alone?"

"To escape my father," he blurts truthfully.

 _Oh. These things are messing with my head. Better be careful._

But Annie sighs and drops her head on his shoulder, and he feels like a million bucks – enough to let go of caution and just enjoy the moment.

"Me too," she whispers, breath tickling his neck.

She takes another gulp of beer, puts the bottle back down. He suckles on his joint, trying not to cough – waiting for her to speak again. But she opens her left hand instead and stares at her palm, keeping quiet, and he suddenly hates the silence between them.

"What's his name?" he asks, and she looks up sharply.

When he doesn't break eye contact, she shakes her head a little – then she steals his joint and takes a large puff before settling back against him.

"Walter," she says, voice neutral, with barely a hint of crack – one that could be attributed to the smoke anyway. "Yours?"

"Teresa," he answers.

Then he shrugs – carefully, as her head is still against him.

"I don't really care about it," he adds.

"Why?"

"I won't meet her anyway."

"You don't know that," she says quietly, eyes returning to her palm.

"The odds are really bad," he explains, light-headed and feeling talkative. "On the travelling circuit, we – we stay between ourselves, you know? We don't mix well with the townies. So even if she lived in the States, and even if her place was somewhere in the Midwest or California, and _even_ if she came here to see my show – you know. I'm the Boy Wonder for them, not _Patrick Jane_."

"Maybe you should start showing your palms to the public," she suggests. "As part of your act. Can't be that hard to do when you play psychic."

He shrugs again – and this time she lifts her head from his shoulder, turns to face him.

"And then what?" he asks. "She runs away from her life to join us? That's ridiculous, no _townie_ would ever do that."

"Maybe _you_ can run away from here and join _her_."

And then _she_ shrugs, but he's not too far gone to hear the note of wistfulness in her voice, to see the faint dismay in the slumping curve of her back.

"You want to leave," he says, surprised.

"Is it so hard to understand?" she says, bristling and defensive and vulnerable.

And it makes him think of his father, the very reason he isn't sleeping in their trailer right now, so he shakes his head and gropes around the ground to find the bottle of wine he knows she left at their feet _somewhere_.

But she's ahead of him already, and his fingers brush against hers as she swipes the bottle right under his hand. She brings it to her mouth, eyes twinkling – and his body is floating in a sea of haziness, pulse beating fast and hard, as she cants her head back and swallows a whole mouthful, using her tongue to stroke the rim without breaking eye contact.

"That's a little unfair," he complains, licking his lips.

His mouth is dryer than the sand under their feet, and her smile is brighter than any light around.

"How is it unfair?" she teases.

"You promised me a taste of that."

"Did I?"

She crosses and uncrosses her legs, grinning at him in clear invitation, and when she takes a new swing he stops holding back, leans over and tastes the wine right out of her mouth. It's tart and sweet and heady, with hints of fruit and woman – and he realises he doesn't need alcohol or drugs to find those altered states of consciousness he was looking for.

He just needs Angela.

* * *

She's seventeen, and already too old for her age.

In her weeks of seven hells, Saturdays are the worst. For most people they're made of sunshine and lazy mornings in bed, a welcome reprieve from hard work and life obligations. But hers are made of rousing the boys up before the sun shines, making sure they're all packed with spare clothes and ready to go spend the next two days at friends' houses – then coming back to fix their father's lunch, which he probably won't eat because he's passed out on the couch again, and won't wake up until late afternoon.

 _Then_ leaving home for work at seven – because Casper's opens at eight on week-ends, and they expect her to be there half an hour before her shift – and spending the next eight to twelve hours serving breakfast, then lunch, and sometimes also supper to happy _normal_ families, pretending to be happy herself as she cleans after them.

Those days she comes back home late, knackered and hoping to avoid her father – most of the time succeeding, as long as he didn't drink all the beer already, and the games on television are captivating enough to distract him from the sound of the front door unlocking. Her homework she'll do on Sunday, after Mass – if she has time between making sure the house stays clean, taking care of her father, and escaping his fists whenever the alcohol runs out.

She meets Greg on a Saturday.

At first, busy with the morning rush, she doesn't pay attention to the new cook except to send one or two brief functional smiles his way when he gives her the next plate orders – but when she leaves the dinner to take a fifteen minutes break outside, he follows and smiles shyly.

"I – uh, wasn't sure, but they told me you were, so I wanted to ask if – I'm not making any sense. Sorry about that."

She looks at him, slightly amused, but doesn't answer. He doesn't look like he's finished talking anyway, and she's on her _break_.

"Are you Teresa Lisbon?" he asks quickly, shuffling his feet.

"Yes," she says – paying more attention to the fresh winter air filling her lungs than to the bumbling teenager by her side.

"I'm, uh, I'm Greg. I mean – I'm Gregory Tayback," he says with a bright smile.

"Hello, Gregory Tayback."

When she offers no other reaction, he shuffles his feet some more.

"I'm your soulmate," he says in a breath.

"No you're not," she answers, frowning.

He blinks in surprise. Then smiles again, raises his left hand, palm facing her.

"Look," he insists. "Isn't that your name?"

His palm is blank.

"My soulmate's name isn't Greg," she says, eyebrows raised. "And I don't see anything in your hand. You must be mistaken."

"But you're Teresa Lisbon, right? Show me yours."

" _No_ ," she says, closing her hand in a fist. "I told you, I'm not your soulmate."

She moves toward the door to escape him – but as he raises a hand to stop her, she steps back in alarm and he freezes, taken aback by her strong defensive reaction.

"Alright," he says quietly, slowly letting his arm fall back to his side as she watches him with careful, mistrustful eyes. "It's okay. I won't hurt you, I promise."

"Good," she says, swallowing – her throat suddenly too tight. "Because if you try, I'll break your fingers and kick your ass."

"I believe you," he grins, an easy and honest thing, and moves aside.

They become tentative friends after that – and Greg is funny and kind, the perfect distraction from her hellish home life. So when her father commits suicide barely a month before her eighteen birthday and he offers himself to help her pick up the pieces, she allows it – allows herself to be vulnerable before him, allows herself to be soothed and taken care of until she can find her strength back.

By the time she does, she fancies herself in love with him, and he definitely loves her back so there's no harm in agreeing to date him, kiss him and, one late summer night, make love together on the back seat of his car.

"I'd like to marry you," he whispers in her neck, still breathing heavily from their shared pleasure. "Not now, I know it's too soon, but – someday."

"It's definitely too soon," she agrees, because she has no idea what else to say.

Marriage is such an alien notion when she has three brothers to care for and ambitions of a career far, far away from Chicago.

From that point on, though she doesn't realise it just yet, their relationship dies a slow death – the quiet agony of a fire burning its kindling too quickly to light up the bulkier wood. As kind and honest and reliable Greg is, he just can't understand the appeal of escaping from this small life – and while he supports her when she dreams of becoming a cop, his dreams for himself include manual labour as a living, many children and a stay-at-home wife which he'll provide for with his own business.

She's twenty-two when, along with a model of a classic car, her grandfather gifts her with the opportunity to leave town after graduation. Tommy is turning twenty-one in August and already living with his girlfriend, Stan and Jimmy are easy enough to deal with when they're far away from their brother's influence, and his offer to 'take them in if she wants to try for that job in San Francisco' comes just as she stopped wishing for it. She can't even bring herself to resent his silence and lack of help all those years – what he offers _now_ is too valuable to turn down in a moment of pride.

She's _leaving_.

"We need to talk," she says that night.

"We do," Greg agrees, sounding nervous. "I've been waiting for – for months, but – now that you're finished with the academy, well – "

He takes a deep breath, then to her horror he falls on one knee and takes out a small box from his pocket.

"We've been dating for nearly five years now, and we've been so good together. You're the most amazing, determined woman I know, and I love you. I knew from the moment I met you that we were soulmates, and I'm so happy we found each other. Teresa Lisbon, will you become my wife?"

In other circumstances, she could have said yes – could have decided to try for a long distance relationship, or let him convince her to move to California together in six months. And if he didn't word it _that_ way, she would have.

Perhaps.

 _Maybe_.

But the fact remains that accepting his proposal – _this_ proposal – would be a sham, and she can't do that to him.

"Greg," she says, then chokes, starts again. "Greg, I'm sorry. I can't."

"Why _not?_ " he whines, slowly getting back on his feet

She turns away, and by the way he stays powerless and defeated already before her, she knows rejecting his proposal is the only thing she can possibly do – she just doesn't know how to explain to him that their lives are running in opposite directions, have been for a while now, and she can't envision a way to attune their dreams anymore. And, truth be told – she doesn't really want to.

So she takes the coward's way out.

"I can't," she repeats, and tears are falling from her eyes now. "Because we're not soulmates. We've never been."

"What? Of course we are," he laughs, sounding a little desperate. "There's your name in my hand! _Teresa Lisbon_ , look!"

He shoves his palm under her nose, just like he did five years ago – and it's still as blank as it was back then. She shakes her head.

"Greg, I told you the first time – _I can't see it_ ," she says, and wipes her cheeks because she needs to stay strong to do this.

"That's impossible, it's you! It's _your name!_ "

"You have the wrong Teresa Lisbon."

All his features are frozen in denial.

"You – you're just doing what you did back then, lie to me to push me away from you. I thought you trusted me, I thought we were past this! I thought – "

"I'm not lying. I wouldn't lie about that."

"Look, just – _show me your hand_. You say you're not lying? _Prove it_."

For a moment she's tempted to deny him, because _that's private_. But she can read in the stubborn tilt of his jaw that he won't believe her if he doesn't see it for himself – and really there's no reason to refuse, except perhaps for a childish oath she took when she was barely seven, when her mother thought she had a girl's name in her palm. So she sighs, unclenches her left fist and bares it to his dismayed eyes.

As expected, he doesn't take the sight of her blank hand very well. But no tears, no plea, no declaration of undying love can move her now – and Greg leaves heartbroken, but at least she was _honest_ with him, honest in her rejection. And as he walks away, she finds she can live better with herself than if she tried to convince him they needed to take a break, escaping forever in the process.

This way is _cleaner_ , at least.

The next morning she calls to apply for the job offer in San Francisco and, as soon as they enthusiastically call her back, she buys her plane ticket.

No sense in waiting any longer.

She's twenty-two years old, and she's free.

* * *

They wait until Angela hits her twenty-first birthday before escaping together, just to be on the safe side – he knows his father won't go looking for him, but Annie's parents might, and her brother Danny definitely will raise all kinds of troubles for him as soon as he finds them. So they leave under cover of the night, and their hushed laughter is irresistible as they run away in a frenzy, because their life suddenly became such a _cliché_.

Los Angeles and its many street shows would seem like the best place for them to make quick money, but the cost of living there is too high – and the place is far too close to Carson Springs, far too close to _home_ for comfort. They find a small apartment in Truckee instead – which has the joined advantage to be less than forty miles from Reno, where he's sure to find a stage gig as soon as he can _get there_ , and on a direct highway line to Sacramento, where Angela will be able to study as soon as he makes enough money to support them both.

Which should be easy with their special set of skills.

 _Right?_

The first year is hard – nearly unbearable, in fact.

They don't realise it at first – they escaped in May, and for a while they only need to gather enough money to pay rent and food, spending the rest as they see fit. The apartment they found isn't so bad in itself – it's clean, mostly devoid of pests, and while not in the finest neighbourhood, it's cheap.

And they're in love. They don't need anything else.

But when autumn comes around, they realise their new home lacks proper isolation – and the nights in Truckee are _cold_ , so much colder than anything they were used to when they lived with the show, where at least up north they could heat themselves with a fire in a barrel. After five months of playing assistant, Angela finds a part-time spot as a waitress to bring them a bit of stability, and he'll often work both menial jobs and street gigs from dawn to well into the night just to scrap by. Money is tight and food is scarce – because he adamantly refuses to beg for charity, and his girlfriend is just as prideful as he is, and they'll resort to petty thievery before getting free help from _townies_.

But they've had worse, and _they can get through this_.

At least that's what he tells himself when they curl around each other in the middle of the night, shivering, trying to fend off frostbites when snowstorms rage outside.

"Maybe – maybe we should – you know," she whispers one morning, when they find the kitchen window covered in frost and the pipes with frozen water flow. "Maybe we should go back."

"Maybe it's time to stop trying to live like _townies_ ," he says, glancing at her sideways. "Bar gigs can only go so far if I can't get – clients. Regulars."

She bites her lip, then nods – because they promised each other to leave the Carney ways behind, but there's no point in living _honestly_ if they aren't living at all.

"Just until we get enough money to stop starving," he promises. "Just until we can get by."

His first mark is a middle aged woman who lost her very rich husband a few months back – and who's less interested in contacting the _Great Unknown_ than in flirting and seducing any younger man paying her attention. Her act of tears and misery is abhorrent, but at least that way he doesn't feel the slightest guilt about conning her out of money.

"I'll never be clean again," he complains one night, washing of the perfume and lipstick the woman left on his skin. "It feels like prostitution, except without the – you know, the sex part."

"It is, in a way," says Angela offhandedly.

He frowns, eyes closed, as a deep shiver creeps up his spine – he doesn't realise he's rubbing the wash cloth harder on his neck until she takes it off his hands and replaces it with her arms.

"I hate that you have to do that kind of gig. But it's only temporary," she says, looking at him with a serious expression – one that means _you better believe what I'm saying, Paddy, else I'll kick your ass_. "As soon as we have enough to buy a car, we'll get far from here. Far from _her_."

"This kind of life is easier when we travel around," he whispers, forehead against hers.

"It is," she agrees. "But _this_ – a stable home – it's what we want. Isn't it?"

"It is," he says, echoing her previous words.

He doesn't tell her how much he misses the freedom of living on the circuit, seeing new places every week, leaving everything – every _townie trouble_ – behind as soon as they change location. But he _does_ tell her how a stable home, to him, is any place far away from his father where she lives also.

It's not even a lie.

Things start getting better when they have enough money to buy a car and break their lease. They move to Nevada first, then east to Kansas, then Illinois, and finally they stop in Pennsylvania because they heard a lot of good things about the casino and hotel gigs in Philadelphia.

That's when he meets Jack Hellion, and they hit if off _splendidly_.

For Angela, it's dislike at first sight. Jack has a good heart – but he drinks, he uses hard drugs, he gambles and worse, _cheats_ while gambling, he loves his nomadic life, and over everything else she hates the influence he has on her boyfriend.

But for him, Jack is someone fun to spend time with – someone who understands what he's going through because he used to work the carnival circuit with his family, someone with the same mindset, complementary showman skills and abilities. Someone smart – not the _smartest_ of course, that'll always be himself. But smart enough to enjoy his shenanigans, and even plan some of his own.

An equal.

A _friend_.

And he doesn't have enough of those that Angela can just ask him to _forget_ about Jack.

They stay far away from each other's gigs at first, spend time together outside of work instead, playing cards, being kids – something he never allowed himself even when he _was_ a kid – until one day Jack finds himself in a bind.

"That contortionist idiot broke a rib trying to fit into a bucket," he groans. "I need a new opening act."

"Okay, let's talk straight here. Are you asking me for a favour?"

He grins – Jack just groans again.

" _Fine_. Yes, I'm asking you a _favour_ , Paddy. What do you want?"

"Teach me how you do that sleight of hand trick with the cards."

" _No way!_ You're asking to learn my trade there, I won't have you put me out of a job! Ask for something else, or else _you_ teach me how to hypnotise people."

"You wouldn't be any good at it," he says, still grinning. "Alright then. Teach me the card tricks _and_ to pick pockets, I'll open your act _and_ teach you how to make yourself a Memory Palace."

They haggle a bit more because Jack's a tight pain in the ass, but finally settle on a fair trade for both of them. They spend even more time together as a result – _that_ annoys Angela to no end – and start helping each other on stage.

What they didn't expect is the sheer success of their double act.

A psychic _and_ a magician in the same night's entertainment? The public eats it up, asks for more, and the cash flows in – as well as very good gigs and contracts for both of them, as long as they agree to work together.

At this point, it's not an issue.

 _Yet._

With his first pay check, he buys himself a good suit – has to look the part if he wants to keep up the act – and flowers for his girlfriend. And she acts as if it was a waste of money, but he can see how much she enjoys them – even if she's right about their frivolous nature. But it's been so long since the last time they could treat themselves to anything nice – or even unnecessary, and they're both so tired of it.

Tired of uncertainty.

So with his second pay check, he buys Angela a ring and treats her to the best restaurant they can afford.

"I wanted to ask you," she suddenly says as they walk back home, enjoying the warm summer night. "Why didn't you ever take my suggestion and show your palms to the public as part of your act?"

He stops, taken aback by her random question – but she looks at him with curiosity, not accusation nor jealousy, and he can only raise his eyebrows in disbelief.

"Because I already have you," he says. "Why would I want anyone else?"

 _Don't you know that already?_

Then he narrows his eyes at her, because he can see his answer pleases her but isn't what she's waiting for – and what _does_ she want to hear?

"Don't you ever – regret it? Leaving with me?" she asks again, this time with hints of worry and something he can't quite –

 _Oh._

"Are you – ?!" he starts asking, voice raising high, before he stops himself.

 _No, wait. First things first._

"Listen," he says after a quick glance to the busy street.

Not what he had in mind, but if she's determined to press the issue _now_ , he'll have to make do.

"We never talked about this, because I thought you knew. You're the only one I want, the only one I _see_. I don't care about some random stranger living her life somewhere – especially when right in front of me is the strongest, most beautiful woman I've ever known."

He fishes the ring he bought earlier from his pocket – dropping on one knee in his work suit would be a very bad idea, but he can still kiss the back of her hand before placing the shiny piece of jewellery in the middle of her palm.

"You're better than me in every way," he says as her eyes water slightly. "The only one I can really trust, the only one I can fully be myself with. I love you, and I would like us to spend the rest of our life together. So – Angela Ruskin, will you marry me?"

"It's stunning," she whispers, eyes on the diamond ring, before raising them to his. "Yes, _yes_ of course I will, Paddy. _Of course_ I will."

Each of their kisses are etched in his memory palace, but this one – this one, he knows he'll store in a special place.

And that ring is indeed stunning on her finger.

"I wanted tonight to be perfect for you," he admits once they start walking again, hand in hand. "I had this all planned – a nice meal, then a walk to that little park you like, and there – well. I'm sorry."

"I don't care," she laughs. "There's no need to be sorry – this night is already perfect to me."

"But _I_ care," he insists. "And I'll make it up to you, I promise."

 _I'll spend the rest of my life making you happy. You'll see._

"I was afraid," she says later, when they lay breathless and entwined in bed. "I thought you'd never want to commit to me – to _us_."

"I've considered myself married to you since we left," he breathes in her neck, eyes closed. "I just lacked money to get you a ring. I though you knew?"

She nods. Kisses him lightly.

"I did, but – "

She sighs, playing with his fingers sprawled on her stomach. He opens his eyes, props himself on a elbow. Spends some time looking down at her, committing every detail of her smiling face to memory – the rosy lips, high cheekbones, arched eyebrows. The wispy locks of hair stuck to her temples with sweat.

The unfamiliar twinkle in her beautiful brown eyes, and the new swelling of her breasts.

"You're pregnant," he says – and it's not a question.

"I missed my period last month. I didn't take a test yet, but – yes. I think so."

"I'm going to be a father."

"Yes, you are," she grins, kissing his goofy smile.

They get married the Carney way, whispering their vows to each other while riding three times around the county fair's carousel – promising each other they'll hold a real _townie_ ceremony one day, back in California. With all their friends and family, and perhaps even their child as ring bearer.

Meanwhile there's work to do, and rubes to fleece, and fame to be gained, and money to pile up so they can buy a house somewhere nice and make sure little Charlotte never lacks of anything.

"Don't you think it's time to fly solo?" she asks him one day, when their daughter is three.

They're sitting on the couch in their Topeka apartment, wrapped in each other's arms after their daughter has gone to sleep.

"You're talented enough to work alone, you don't need to keep opening Jack's shows," she adds, looking up at him from his lap.

He frowns at her.

"That's not what you want to ask," he says, taking in her slumping shoulders and tangled hair. "What is it?"

"Stop it, I hate it when you read me like that," she groans. "We can never have a real conversation when you do that."

He just waits – she rubs her cheek against his stomach, then sighs.

"I miss California," she says. "I'd like Danny to get to know Charlotte, too. And – I'd really like to live in only one place, Paddy. We've been moving so much, it's like being on the road all over again."

"And now that money isn't tight anymore, you'd like to sign up for college," he adds, with a slight smile.

"Well, yes. That too."

"Fair enough," he grins. "I've been thinking of getting an agent anyway. Maybe start private practice again. There's a lot of marks in Los Angeles, rich ones too – "

"People," she interrupts him.

"What?"

"People," she repeats heatedly, getting up. "They're _people_ , Paddy, not marks. You _have_ to stop thinking like that."

"I'm still fleecing them," he says, raising one eyebrow. "How do you think we get to pay for all this? You're not complaining about _that_."

"Doesn't mean I have to like it," she mutters, disappearing in their bedroom.

It's not the first fight they have about that issue – and it probably won't be the last one, he knows. He just has _no idea_ what she wants from him. They've seen how life on a _townie_ 's pay check looked like, is she really that eager to go back to poverty? And how does she expect him to pay for those studies she wants so much? Or Charlotte's education?

What does she expect him to do with himself if he doesn't have a stage to perform on?

He doesn't follow right away, stays sitting instead, staring for the first time in _years_ at the name etched in his left palm. Wondering how life with a soulmate would be. Would she balance and complete him like Angela does? Would she challenge him instead?

Would she side with him on this issue?

Guilt suddenly fills his mind so completely he nearly sobs aloud – and nothing matters anymore except making Angela happy, because he loves her and she gave him a daughter, a reason to live for and become _better_. How would he live with himself if he strayed, gave up at the first sign of hardship? Love to him is more than a feeling, it's a _sacred oath_ – one he made to himself as well as her. He's a coward in many ways, he knows – but not in this.

 _Not_ in this _._

So he joins her in bed and promises to do his best, and the next day breaks up his partnership with Jack – who deals with the news better than expected, considering he's leaving him in the dust, but still takes him for fifty bucks before they leave. A week later he sneaks up in Malibu and buys them a home, before sending Angela and Charlotte plane tickets – from Topeka, Kansas to Los Angeles, California. And they get married on their new beach property, after bailing Danny out of jail – inviting all of Annie's family, but making sure _his_ father isn't around.

Charlotte makes an adorable ring bearer – just like they dreamed it a few years ago.

He starts working television gigs and builds himself a study in their backyard to start private practice again, so that he won't have to invite clients into their home, and Angela signs up for law and economics classes. Their daughter starts kindergarten, then elementary school – learns how to read, write and do maths. Takes piano lessons from her mother, and swimming lessons from himself, and she's so talented in everything she does.

He's so proud of her.

Of _them_.

It's not perfect of course – they still have their arguments, the same ones over and over again, and he isn't at home enough as he still moves all over California for his gigs.

But no family life is perfect, and mostly they're _happy_.

Then Red John happens.

* * *

 **Nest chapter is already half-written.**

Realistically, expect between two and three weeks before the next update so I can get a head start on part 3 – I'm keeping up with the 8-to-12k words per chapter for this one, and outside of NaNoWriMo I'm usually a slow writer.

In the meantime - cheers, people. Don't let yourself be deterred. Write what you want to write.


	2. Part 2

_**Disclaimer:**_ _ **As you probably guessed by now, this show and its characters aren't mine.**_

 **A/N:** First of all, I'd like to thank all of you who were brave enough to take a chance on this story, even with the very strong warnings at the beginning of Part 1. I'll admit readily to using them both as real warnings and as a way to weed out the trolls – so if you weren't put off, kudos to you and you have all my gratitude.

Some people asked what were the pairings on this story. My answer is:

 **This is a retelling.**

Expect much the same endgame as canon, but know it will be a long time in coming (just as in canon) with a lot of other pairings along the way (once again, _just_ as in canon). Staying close to canon is kind of the point – remember what prompted the writing of this story?

There will be un-canon things, of course – both in pairings and events, wouldn't be interesting to read otherwise. But I'm not about to give the game away! Just keep in mind the warnings on Part 1, and be ready to keep taking chances on me. I know I'm asking for much, and won't fault you if you can't find it in yourself to deal with the uncertainty.

 **Warnings:** Graphic description of a child's murder, and Jane is out of the hospital before he's fully ready to be so he's in a bad shape with severe symptoms of depression, dissociation and mental confusion. If this triggers you, please stay safe.

 **Spoilers:** Some dialogues were taken from 5.05 "Red Dawn". Allusion to information given in 1.03 "Red Tide", 2.14 "Blood In, Blood Out" and 3.21 "Like a Redheaded Stepchild".

* * *

 **Kindred  
Part 2**

She's been team leader of the SCU for barely a year and a half when Minelli summons her in his office on a sunny Monday morning.

"We need to talk," he says, gesturing toward the chairs in front of his desk.

"I hope I'm not in trouble, Boss?" she asks, taking a seat.

"What? Oh no, not at all! Your work is impeccable, as usual."

He wipes his forehead with a greying handkerchief, and she frowns – she's never seen him so nervous.

"I have a favour to ask of you," he says, looking at her intently. "Five weeks ago we picked up a case from SacPD and – several other places, and I need one of my teams to handle it. I would like that team to be yours."

"Of course. What's it about?"

"It's a hard one," he warns her. "No fingerprints, no DNA, no suspects. Serial killer – crafty one, too. In one instance there isn't even a body, only signs of a struggle, a missing person report and traces of blood on a basement floor. Initial investigation was done poorly and you'll have _a lot_ of work to do."

She raises her eyebrows.

"Are you talking about Red John? That's a _very_ high profile case."

"Yes. It is."

"Why me? Why not Allen, or – or even Bosco? He was my boss at SFPD back in the days. They both have more experience than I do. Not that I don't appreciate it, but – why are you asking _me?_ "

"Are you saying you don't want to take a look at the case?" Minelli asks.

She narrows her eyes at him, making him smile.

"Of course I'll take a look, Boss. I'm just wondering – why the honour? What's the catch?"

"Truth is, Lisbon, nobody else wants that case. It's been passed from team leader to team leader like a hot potato ever since we got it from SacPD. You don't want to know how many threats of resignation I've had to go through in the last few weeks."

She stares. He gives up a little shrug, anxiety still obvious.

"High profile case, no viable suspect, lack of hard evidence – there's nothing to go on, and I've learned this week there's a lot of _cowards_ in law enforcement. But _you_ are not like that, and that's why I want you to get a look at it, re-examine everything to find new leads. You're the new eyes I need on this – you're hard-working, your work ethics are commendable – "

"Alright, alright, no need to butter me up," she grins. "Give me the file, I'll get a look at it."

"Good. _Great_. You have a week to decide if you take it or not. If you don't – well, I'll have to pass it up to the FBI."

"And we don't want that. Gotcha."

She picks up the manila folder on Minelli's desk – and as she opens it, engrosses herself in the preliminary assessment, she can hear her boss getting up and walking around his office, straightening pens, binder piles and potted plants alike.

"I do that too, you know. When I'm feeling restless," she says offhandedly, still reading.

He clears his voice.

"Do what exactly?"

She raises her head, makes a face.

"Straightening things," she answers, challenging. "Boss, if this case is a ticking bomb, I need to know."

He sighs deeply, puts both hands flat on his desk and glares at her. But she stares right back – and when he realises she won't back down, he shakes his head, smiling fondly.

"There are politics at play, and it's the kind of case that makes or breaks a career," he admits. "I'd rather you don't worry about that – your job and position at the CBI are not at risk. Just – do what you have to do, work as well as you usually do, and try to find new leads. I'll handle the rest."

She wants to say something more about it, but he's suddenly ushering her out of his office and closing the door behind her, as if reading her mind.

He does that often, she reflects – either he got to know her very well in the last year, or she's very easy to read.

 _Better not to think too hard about that, else I'll lose my sanity._

She takes the elevator back to the unit's floor, half her attention still on the abridged files. Minelli was right – evidence is lacking, and most of the interviews aren't informative or worse, were so badly conducted that even starting over again might not yield untainted results. They'll have a lot of job to do on this one.

Unsurprisingly perhaps, she finds herself relishing the challenge.

As soon as she gets to her temporary office – they're still in the process of remodelling – she calls the archives to send up the complete files. She'll need to see pictures – she'll need to know names. She always works better when she can get a sense of the human stories behind the crimes.

Most detectives do.

An archivist comes along with a trolley quicker than she expected.

"First batch of Red John?"

"Yes, you can leave them right here. Thanks! I just called them in, how come you're here already?"

"Oh, I didn't need to bring them up from the basement, they're from Brown's office just down the hall," he answers with a smile, leaving as soon as the boxes are stashed against the wall.

 _Minelli wasn't lying_ _– I've never heard about Brown backing down from a case. What's so bad about this one?_

As soon as all the files are in her makeshift office, she starts fishing through the boxes to find pictures of the victims to tape on a whiteboard. The first few photos are nothing unusual – gruesome pictures of a heinous crime, of course, but nothing she hasn't seen before a thousand times since she started investigating murders. But after the first four victims, she notices the cutting patterns changing – getting more precise, less rushed – and she shivers.

 _He's getting higher enjoyment out of this. Those are not the marks of a killer getting bored and changing his M.O._ – _he's learning how to cause more suffering as he goes along. Learning his trade._

"Teresa?"

She jumps. Sam is standing at the junction between the temporary walls – the closer he could get to knocking, she guesses.

"You scared me," she says, turning away from the last picture she taped to the board. "Is there something I can help you with?"

He stops beside her, staring at the work she's done for a moment before turning back, facing her.

"I see the rumours were true. You've taken on the Red John case."

"It's just a test run for now," she says, raising an eyebrow. "What of it?"

Sam shuffles his feet a bit.

"Did he tell you about the risks associated to that case?" he asks, and she frowns.

"He told me you guys were throwing it at each other like a piece of coal, and that there were politics at play."

"That's all?"

"What's this all about, Sam?"

He groans.

"There's a rift upstairs about that one – the seventh victim was niece to a judge or something, a self-important piece of crap who started pressuring SacPD about finding her killer a few months ago. That's why they called us in to take it off their hands – but now the pompous jerk is causing _us_ trouble about it, and Minelli's under _a lot_ of pressure to catch Red John because the pockets of this guy are _deep_. There's talk about everything from sanctions to demotions if we don't get results quickly – you don't want that case, Teresa, trust me. It's a career sink."

"That's it?" she says, wavering between fury and disbelief. "That's why you guys all refused to work on this case? _Are you actually kidding me?_ "

She makes a swift angry gesture to the whiteboard.

"Look at that. Ten victims – _ten_ , most of them women. Look at this one! _That's a kid._ Seven years old – victim number nine. He slit her throat first so she couldn't scream and wake her mother, then sliced her guts open. She died quickly, Sam, but _painfully_ – and you're telling me nobody wants to find her killer _because the case poses a threat to our careers?_ "

"This isn't the McTier case, Teresa, where your hunch will confirm itself if you wait just long enough!" he says, anger and worry battling on his face. "This killer leaves no traces at all! Look, you're a good cop. But even the best cop in the world can't pull evidence out of clouds – and this one, it's going to _tear you apart!_ "

"You know what? Thanks for your _concern_ , but I think _I can handle myself!_ Do me a favour, send my team in on your way out. We have work to do."

 _Patronising jackass._

She buries herself in the files, doing her best to ignore him. He stays there a few seconds, unmoving and silently judgemental, then leaves – only then does she allow herself a frustrated sigh. It's not the first time they fight about something like this. He used to be overbearing at times, when she worked under his direction in San Francisco, until they talked about it – and she thought he understood.

She thought those days were over.

And she _loves_ the man – she really does. She just wishes he'd see her as an adult, _the senior agent she is_ instead of the bumbling rookie she once was, and treat her accordingly.

When Cho, Rigsby and Hannigan come in, she informs them of her decision of taking on the case – because she knows she won't back out of this. Sam's warnings only spurned on her determination, but what really got to her was Charlotte Jane's little face smeared with blood and fear, and the agony still obvious in her blank eyes.

You don't touch children.

 _Ever._

Cho and Rigsby trust her already, and agree to work the case without a fuss. Hannigan is aware of the political ramifications and whines a lot – but there's no heat hidden in his protests and she saw the way he looked at the pictures on the whiteboard. He's just as affected by this as she is, and she knows he'll come around in no time.

She's tempted for a moment to start by the kid's case – but, _no_. They all need to keep a clear head about this, and to work out their current information on each separate victim together, as a team, starting from the beginning. Two victims a day for a week – that's her goal.

On Friday morning, when Minelli comes around to ask her if she'll keep working on Red John, they only have two cases left to review – one really, because the last victims were mother and child. So she tells him she will – of course she will. Nothing could change her mind now, not after seeing that kid's eyes.

Or so she thinks.

She only realises late that afternoon how very, _very_ familiar the name of Charlotte's father is. And while her heart beats hard and fast when she discovers it on the files, and again when she calls and calls and gets no answer from his phone, she manages to keep a professional front and treat it like any other case – Patrick Jane is just another relative of victims she needs to contact for a follow-up.

Nobody who _could_ turn out to be important to her.

But that night, far away from work, she spends a long time in bed staring at the name in her palm – and starts wondering if tackling Red John herself was really such a good idea.

She never had personal investment in a case before.

* * *

He feels himself cracking at the seams – the frayed edges of his wrinkled shirt barely a mirror of his inner turmoil.

Getting thrown back into the world after six months is harder than he thought. The feeling of walking aside, _beside_ his own life is pervasive, unhelped by the fact every stimuli seems enhanced somehow – the sun is shining too brightly, the wind is harmfully prickling his skin, smells and noises are attacking his senses in a way they never did before. He managed to keep himself together enough to convince Dr. Miller to release him – but right now, unbearably exposed as he walks in the street, he'd give anything to hide in a safe place until the storm is over.

Except the storm won't be over until he kills Red John – and there's nothing left in the world for him to do except walk toward that goal, work through that path, against himself if needed be.

His slain family deserves at least that much from him.

The police department of Los Angeles in charge of the Red John case is wide and airy – a lot of space and light, with complacent officers loitering around the coffee machine. For a second he feels like he's stepping into a cliché – rich offices for rich victims, exactly the kind of things he was taught to despise as a kid. But he reminds himself once again of his goal in coming here, and grits his teeth as he walks to the reception area.

He can do this.

He _will_ do this.

"Hi," he says to the young policeman behind the front desk. "Can I, uhm, talk to detective Elliot?"

"Sure, I'll get him for you. What's your name?"

"Patrick Jane," he says, licking his dry lips. "I worked for him on the – on a case last year."

The kid nods, gets up – comes back five minutes later with an older detective in tow.

"Mister Jane," says Elliott. "Did SacPD finally get ahold of you? Your work here was appreciated and we'd be happy to have you back – I didn't think we'd see you again around here."

 _You nearly didn't._

"I came here to know about the – the Red John case," he says instead, uninterested in talking about himself, or any other case for that matter, until he hears what he wants to hear. "Where are you with the investigation?"

The man purses his lips.

"Follow me to my office, we'll talk," he says quietly.

The man's office is as clean and light as the rest of the place – and the white walls are so bright they reflect the sun right into his eyes. He grits his teeth again.

"Sit," the detective says, walking around his desk.

But he starts pacing instead, too antsy to obey.

"Do you have any new leads?" he asks.

"We don't," he says. "Because the CBI took charge of the case two months ago."

"CBI – _CBI_ , with a _C_. Not _F_ BI?" he mutters, trying to remember what organisation that abbreviation refers to.

Surprisingly, he comes up with a blank.

"California Bureau of Investigation," says Elliott helpfully. "Cowboys from Sacramento," he adds _sotto voce_ , rolling his eyes.

He frowns.

"So – they're in charge of the case now," he says, trying to wrap his mind around the idea.

Half of his plan was to finagle access to the Los Angeles case against working some of theirs, then climbing up the grapevine until reaching the core of the investigation in Sacramento. But if another organisation already picked up the pieces –

"Do you have the name of the detective in charge?" he asks, scratching his neck.

He needs a shower.

"I do, somewhere," says the man. "If you _sit down_ , I'll find it for you."

He's very tempted to stay upright, because this man _irks_ him, reminds him needlessly of his conman days – but he needs his cooperation just a bit longer, and sitting in a posh uncomfortable chair isn't the worst thing he had to do in his life to get information out of a mark. So he sits, and _tries_ to stop fidgeting – his leg jumps on its own as soon as he stops paying attention, of course, but that's the least of his worries.

The waiting time until the detective comes back to his office is infinitely more trying than his restless limb.

"Here we go!" says Elliott, walking back in with a single sheet of paper.

The man shuts the door behind him, then seems surprised to find him already out of his seat – but he still strolls back to his desk without a care in the world, and _what a waste of time_.

"May I?" he asks, hand stretched, jaw clenched to prevent himself from imploding.

"Of course! Here. You'll find the name of the director of the CBI, means of contact, and names of the team members working the Red John case. I hope you find it helpful, because I'd like to – "

Elliott is still talking, but he stopped listening – or, more accurately, he stopped _hearing_ his voice as soon as his eyes fell on a too familiar name in the very middle of the page.

"Mister Jane?"

He feels raw and wrecked, and going _there_ right now isn't possible – not in public anyway, not where someone could see him breaking down. He paid too much, worked too hard to keep his stint in asylum out of his personal files.

So he puts aside what he just saw, locks it in the _deal with later_ area of his brain, shuts down the emotional part as best as he can, and focuses his attention on the older man.

"I was wondering if you would agree to use your psychic powers to help us again," he says, eyes blinking owlishly.

"No," he answers, voice rough, dry and unforgiving. "I don't do that anymore. Didn't you hear? _I'm a fraud_. There's no such things as psychic powers."

"You were still very helpful."

"I don't do that anymore," he repeats before turning heels, sheet nearly crumpled in his tight grip.

He keeps no memory of the trek back to his car – only that the light hurts his eyes, that his sticky shirt chafes his skin, and that at one point a car honked loudly while he was crossing the street. He drives back home in the same mental state, barely functioning on autopilot – later he'll marvel that he didn't hit someone, but right now he just needs to hide. To find himself in a safe place again, as safe as possible anyway, far away from the noises and brightness and smells of people everywhere.

His first knee-jerk reaction, coming home, is to find shelter in their bedroom.

Then he realises how _inappropriate_ it would be to bring _his soulmate_ – even only as a name printed on a sheet of paper – in the bedroom he used to share with _the wife he killed with his thoughtlessness_.

When the dry heaves and hyperventilation abates, he realises there won't be any safe place in this house – everything _everywhere_ is still too full of Angela's smiles, Angela's warmth, Angela's live body writhing in pleasure under and over his. Even the beach, on which they got married and made love so many times – even there.

Only his study ever remained his own space, untouched by delighted laughter and small dirty feet – and in the end, its cold and unfriendly walls are exactly what he needs.

He breaks down.

* * *

Working on the case, she gets a look at the family pictures, of course – the very official studio taken ones, all three of them preening perhaps just a little too much for the cameras but still very obviously happy together. She looks at the magazines too, with photos and interviews painting the portrait of a slick conman wearing designers clothes, not a hair out of place, with an obvious talent in feeding charm and lies to anyone around.

She's not impressed.

The video that triggered Red John's attack, she watches with growing disgust – because that man wasn't half as good as he thought he was in hiding his contempt of the crowd he was playing to. Following which she spends many a night praying, dreading meeting him one day and realising this is the man God decided to foil on her.

Afterward she reads the short police reports of the preliminary investigation by LAPD, and the lengthy ones made by SacPD – those talking of a heartbroken, self-loathing man barely able to string two coherent sentences together, the opposite of what every other titbit of information about him accounted for. One for which she feels some amount of sympathy for – though his television stunt was _stupid_ , there was no way to anticipate such a terrible response from the serial killer.

Nobody deserves such a tragedy befalling them. Not even unremorseful charlatans talking through their hat.

Then she finds at the very bottom of the evidence box a candid picture of the man, obviously taken when he wasn't looking. No hair gel, proof of wealth or signs of deception on that one – not even a smile, just a pensive expression with eyes half closed, windswept curls and a background of sunrise over the sea.

An anomaly that intrigues her.

Such an obvious departure from the usual way he presents himself to the world – there's no way to know how this one came to be in the box. So she doesn't put it back – instead tapes it on a whim to the information board she keeps around to work on each time they have _regular_ crimes downtime.

Last one in the small row of people they didn't manage to contact.

Sometimes, when cases are hard and her head is blank with tiredness, she finds herself staring at that picture. Because somehow, the unguarded expression on his face calms her – gives her the kind of rest and peace of mind she would get from listening to the sound of the ocean or the pitter-patter of rain falling against her window.

Then she catches herself daydreaming and looks away quickly. _Guiltily_. Tries to focus on work again, mind caught in an array of _what ifs_ – until paperwork catches up to her and commands her attention enough to make her forget about the name in her hand.

"Hey," says Sam one evening, shoulder leaning against the panel division.

"What do you want?" she mutters, barely glancing his way – still angry with him.

He walks to her desk calmly, pulls a chair and sits. She can feel his eyes on her – and when he still doesn't talk, she pushes back her paperwork and glares.

"What do you want?" she asks again.

"To say I'm sorry," he answers, self-assurance in his voice but softness around the eyes.

She crosses her arms on her chest, leans back in her chair – waiting.

"I was wrong to try and get you off the Red John case. You have a right to choose what you want to work on and what risks to take in your career."

"Yes, I do," she says neutrally – not giving an inch.

He sighs.

"Are you really going to make me spell it out? You're _right_ – someone needs to catch that killer, to bring justice to their victims and to prevent more of them. If you decide it's your case, then it's your case and I can't – _shouldn't_ interfere with that."

"But?"

 _"But_ I still wish you weren't the one working on it," he admits. "You were the best damn rookie I ever trained, and you became a _great_ agent. I'm worried Minelli's making you stand on the edge of a pitfall _he_ should be the one dealing with."

"He isn't," she says. "You know Minelli wouldn't do that to me. He'll have my back."

"Okay," he answers quietly.

They stay in silence, each of them taking in the sight of the other. And then she notices how Sam's shoulders are slumping, how the tired circles under his eyes seem darker, how the lines on his forehead are deeper than usual. She frowns, but he gets up and turns away from her, as if feeling she's about to probe.

He stops before the whiteboard in its remote corner of the room.

She follows him.

"Hey," she says, bumping lightly her shoulder against his arm.

"Is this your case?" he asks, trying for lightness – and failing.

"Yeah."

"Want to talk about it? Seems like you could use a sounding board."

 _"Sure._ Lets get you to work on my case, like you don't have enough work of your own," she says, raising an eyebrow. "Seriously, Sam. You look dead on your feet."

He shrugs, not quite meeting her eyes, and she's reminded of that last year they worked together in San Francisco. When he was having marital problems and didn't know what to do about it – didn't _want_ to do anything about it. When he was spending more time in the office than at home, up to the point that she started keeping bed linens in a cupboard for when he fell asleep at his desk. When he was working on the case that proved to be his undoing, trying to find any kind of proof to nail the killer and, failing that, planning murder – _joking around_ , she thought, until suddenly he wasn't joking anymore and needed an alibi.

She trusted him then, and he trusted her.

 _For old times sakes_ , she thinks, and bumps her shoulder against his again.

"Talk to me."

 _What really prompted you to come here tonight?_

Instead of answering, he raises his left hand and unfolds his fingers – bares his scarred palm to her eyes.

"She died last night," he says after a while, and she can hear heavy undertones of grief in his normally levelled voice. "My hand _burned_ , and then – "

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

The name in his hand isn't his wife's.

 _No wonder he isn't sharing this with her.  
_

"I've never even met her," he says, shaking his head. "Now I won't get the chance."

"I'm sorry," she repeats – unable to find words strong enough to convey compassion and sympathetic grief.

He shrugs again, as if trying to shake off his sadness.

"It doesn't matter now," he says. "It's irrational – I'm happy with my life. Things are going well with Mandy, my kids are wonderful, the job is fulfilling. But sometimes – sometimes I just wish for impossible things."

"I understand," she says quietly, eyes on her own palm.

"Do you really?" he asks teasingly – as if doubting her, as if his words hold deeper meanings, layers she isn't privy to.

She glares. He chuckles.

"Did you ever meet yours?" he asks, with a light gesture to the hand she kept raised mid-chest, palm face up.

She tightens her fingers abruptly, embarrassed.

"No," she says, with a brief unintentional glance at the picture on the whiteboard.

And of course, being the detective he is, Sam follows the movement of her eyes – and raises his eyebrows.

" _That_ guy?"

"What?" she says. "Of course not. Don't be ridiculous."

He rolls his eyes at her – and her face heats up because of course, _of course_ , she's always been a terrible liar, and he can see right through her.

" _Patrick Jane_ , huh? That's your soulmate?" he says, reading the name off the board – still teasing her.

" _I've never met him_ ," she repeats, feeling increasingly defensive. "It doesn't mean anything, you know that. There could be hundreds of people with that same name!"

"Blonde curls and a beach bum look. That's not your usual type."

"It's not. _He's not_."

She hides her face in her hands – feeling very much like a schoolgirl caught smoking after hours.

" _Please_ don't tell anyone about this."

"Hey."

His hand gently touches her elbow, and she rubs her face a few times before raising her eyes up at him. The look in his eyes is so tender, so _understanding_ it nearly takes her breath away.

"It's okay, I won't tell. Promise."

"Thanks," she answers, averting her eyes.

"It's not like you can choose whose name you get on your hand, anyway," he adds quietly. "There's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I know."

But knowing and _knowing_ are two different things, and the stern voice of her mother as she tells her _never to tell, never to show_ haunts her.

The _shame_ haunts her, even as she has no idea why she should feel that way.

She and Sam talk a bit longer of unrelated, lighter subjects – but she stays staring at the picture a long time after he leaves, unmoving, eyes trailing on every detail. The windswept curls. The pensive expression. The small crinkles on the sides of his half-closed eyes. The golden, rosy tint given by the sun to his skin. The slight flare of his nostrils and the single line between his eyebrows.

She kept it there as a distraction, she admits to herself. So she could wonder from time to time what life would be with her soulmate around. Not that she ever got close to an answer – but a distraction is a distraction, and now that she knows, it's time to end it. Time to stop dreaming.

Time to stop wishing for impossible things.

The man in that picture is the grieving, ex-conman husband and father to murder victims in a case she was assigned to.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

She takes off the picture, puts it face down on her desk and covers the board with a sheet for the night. Tomorrow she'll replace the photograph with another one – that one from the advertisement for his show perhaps, with the shiny suit, smarmy smile and slicked back hair.

She hates it.

It'll be perfect.

* * *

It takes time before he gathers enough courage to start on the long drive to Sacramento – more than it should, more than it _would have_ had he not known what is waiting for him there.

 _Teresa Lisbon._

The name itself tugs at his heartstrings – especially as he never really considered the possibility of seeing it written anywhere else than on his skin.

And every time he looks at it, breathing becomes difficult, even without knowing the woman it belongs to – because it reminds him of guilt and self-loathing, of his Annie's sadness, of their fights when he wouldn't stop playing psychic for her and Charlotte's sake, and of a moment spent on a couch, late at night, staring at the silver lettering in his hand.

Considering betrayal.

Considering betrayal with his soulmate, when he had a good woman who loved him despite his faults, and a little girl who always smiled when she saw him.

It reminds him also of how eager Angela was to meet _hers_ , that night so long ago when they first talked, first kissed, first tumbled together in the sand beside the small river. Just how cruel can fate be, to rob her of everything and hand him over a chance she never had, a chance _he_ never wanted but _she_ did?

'CBI Senior Special Agent Teresa Lisbon' says the sheet of paper left on the front seat of his car.

He rents a room in a small hotel before driving to the CBI headquarters, throat tight with anguish – feeling like a _sucker_ , and hearing his father's disappointed voice in his ear, and still utterly unable to stop himself from tearing his mind apart because he doesn't deserve to meet her, doesn't deserve to _know_.

Then again, maybe she isn't.

Maybe it's not the _right_ Teresa Lisbon – he heard stories about this, about cases of soulmates mistaken identities who happened to have the same name. And classic literature is full of them.

That must be it.

 _It has to be._

And thinking about it suddenly allows him to breathe easier – because whether it's the case or not, he'll have to _make it so_.

He doesn't deserve to find happiness again.

Not in a world without his wife and daughter.

* * *

She's catching up on paperwork when Rigsby comes along, frowning.

"What's up?" she asks, putting her pen aside.

"There's someone asking for you up front. He says his name's Patrick Jane."

"Patrick Jane? _Really?_ "

Startled, she looks through the cracks between the temporary wall panes – and sees a man in a wrinkled dress shirt looking away from her, arms around himself, obviously anxious.

 _Patrick Jane._

"Red John, right?" says Rigsby. "Wife and daughter, about a year ago?"

"Yeah," she answers – forcing herself to look away before her co-worker notices how intensely curious she is. "He's been off the radar. SacPD lost track of him six months ago – I've never met him."

She swallows, trying to calm her frantic heartbeats.

"Did he say why he came in?"

"Just that he wants to talk to you."

Then Hannigan comes along and tells her they're up for a two hours drive to a crime scene. She gives her orders and, once alone, takes a few seconds to find her footing before meeting _him_. When she feels ready, she takes a deep breath and walks out of her makeshift office.

He's standing with his back to a stretch of wall, curled defensively around himself – thousand-yard stare carefully watching the activity going on around him, nothing escaping his attention. As she gets closer, she gets thrown off by the wrinkled, unwashed clothes, the unshaven cheeks, the careless hair – the air of quiet desolation lingering in the deep lines on his face.

None of the wealth of second-hand information she got from the case prepared her for that broken shell of a man waiting for her in the middle of the bullpen.

If he didn't identify himself to Rigsby earlier, she wouldn't have recognised him.

At all.

"Mister Jane," she says, walking to him. "I'm Agent Teresa Lisbon."

And she watches for a sign, a flicker of recognition in his eyes – but other than keeping his left hand hidden in his right armpit, there's nothing. Only pain and despair and a bleak blank stare.

So she soldiers on, and closes her own hand tightly.

She won't make Greg's mistake.

* * *

"You wanted to talk to me?" she adds softly, and keeping himself aloof is the hardest thing he's ever done in his life.

Because the first thing he notices is –

 _– freckles_.

She's covered in the stuff, little speckles of sun-kissed skin everywhere, and it plays havoc on his mind because he loved mapping Annie's with eyes and hands and lips and tongue. But otherwise she's a polar opposite to his wife – _thankfully_ – and losing himself in contemplation more than half a second isn't an option anyway.

"Hi," he says, voice rough with disuse and contained emotion, stretching his right hand toward her – left one carefully concealed against his ribs.

"Hi," she answers, shaking it briefly.

Both of them drop their gaze to their handshake – _holding her hand doesn't make him feel special_ and _the two of them looking down doesn't mean anything_ – and he only realises she's waiting for him to talk when he meets her intrigued, nonplussed, _intelligent_ stare.

"Uhm, detective Elliott said that you're in charge of the – the Red John investigation?"

* * *

She doesn't realise right away what kind of chaos this man can unleash with a snap of his fingers.

Still, it's not _that_ unexpected when Hannigan punches him – nor is long-suffering Minelli pandering to him in the hope of avoiding a lawsuit. Hannigan was always a hot head, and her boss always eager to smooth over trouble by any means necessary.

Slightly more surprising is the fact she suddenly finds herself saddled with _a civilian_ en route to a crime scene – but then again, not unheard of.

They _do_ hire consultants from times to times.

They're just usually less of the _murder victim's grieving spouse_ variety.

"Where are we going?" he asks, minute interest in his voice.

"Malakoff Diggins," she answers, fiddling with her GPS.

"I've never been there," he says. "Have you?"

"No."

She isn't interested in small talk – they're already late and he _unnerves_ her, makes her feel like an unsolved puzzle under his watchful, curious stare.

"You're annoyed at me," he says, cocking his head to the side.

"I'm not _annoyed_ ," she scoffs – but yes, _yes she is_.

Not at him – only _marginally_ at him – but because of this whole situation throwing her off, making her feel out of balance. Out of control, just when she got used to being the one in charge. Having to constantly push the _soulmate issue_ to the back of her head is only a small part of it – but for the first time in years, she finds herself feeling sympathy for Greg.

 _No wonder he didn't believe me at first. It's tantalising.  
_

"No, it's okay," he says. "I understand."

"We're running late and – and I have work to do," she attempts to explain.

"Fair enough."

He gives her a fleeting little smile and turns his gaze away. And she's the one staring now – only breaking it off when Hannigan joins them in the SUV, sneering openly when he notices the man riding shotgun beside her.

The two hours drive – _three_ because of traffic – is long, silent and awkward.

Then things start going haywire.

"Dellinger chairs the Fifth Circuit Appeals Court. Do you know _how much trouble_ I could get in if he's pissed off?"

"No. How much?"

" _A lot!_ "

But _tropical storm Jane_ , already a force to be reckoned with, is well on its way to becoming a hurricane by the time she realises the quietly withdrawn widower isn't really quiet or withdrawn at all.

And by that point, of course, the words _planning accordingly_ lost any meaning or sense a long time ago.

If they ever had any.

* * *

Sprawled on the brown couch he found in storage, he feigns sleep – listening intently to the sounds and noises going on around him.

He hasn't been there a month yet and already the flurry of activity in the bullpen comforts him – enough to allow him a reprieve from insomnia. Though most of the time, he doesn't use the couch to rest – he reorganises his mind instead, slowly adding lists of information about his co-workers. Building new personalised areas in his memory palace with soft touches of knowledge gathered through shared memories, cold reading and – as he's doing now – eavesdropping.

A task he didn't need to undertake since Charlotte's birth.

He doesn't bother with Hannigan, nor with the string of agents who come and go after him, unable to work with his methods, unable to deal with his teasing. It may be callous of him, but they just aren't important enough. Sure, he'll store their names and faces and salient related events in his mind, but he won't bother to learn more about them.

Three people are slowly becoming permanent fixtures in his life, however, and those three he commits to memory.

Kimball Cho, who _isn't_ named for the Kipling character, is a reformed bad boy who likes books and hates pineapple – someone very firm in his likes and dislikes. His self-disciplined stance and focus, especially around Lisbon, betray his stint in the military – but the way he avoids all drugs and alcohol cannot be explained solely by his previous work in the Narcotics division. No, that is the cautious ways of someone intimately familiar with substance abuse – someone who knows how easy it is to get addicted, and refuses to fall into that pit.

He likes Cho.

Wayne Rigsby is a deeply romantic soul with a scarred hand, a victim of child abuse – he isn't quite sure yet if it was emotional, physical or both. But his shyness and eagerness to please, the way he always looks up for attention, and especially how he copes with his emotions through food consumption are tells he notices in the very first hours of their acquaintance. Harder to see is the latent violence and anger he hides under gentleness, the overbearingly protective way he hovers sometimes, and the deep intelligence hiding behind benign looks. This is a man who is used to being overlooked despite his size, and who found a way to turn it to his advantage instead of wilting away.

He likes Rigsby.

Teresa Lisbon is a mystery – a woman made of deep contradictions, both extremely smart and absolutely honest at the same time, so easy to read, but who still manages to surprise him everyday. He knows she cared for her dysfunctional father and probably a bunch of younger siblings when she was a teen, brothers most likely – he sees it in the way she unconsciously mothers her team while still trying to appear tough and by-the-book around them, and in the way she gets deeply competitive around him when it comes to closing cases. He knows she internalises anger, turns it into action deliberately as to make her more efficient in her job – an impressive feat of sanity considering he's never met anyone who feels emotions as deeply as she does. She reacts on a hairpin turn whenever she gets annoyed but laughs and smiles within a few minutes of yelling, so he makes it his job to push her buttons as much as he can – because he's still a showman at heart and there's nothing more satisfying than a reactive public. Sometimes he feels he knows her in and out, as much as it's possible to know someone without getting deeply involved in their life, but he still has no idea what makes her tick.

He likes Lisbon – but unlike Cho and Rigsby, she fascinates and challenges him also, makes him want to get better in this game they play just so he can keep up with her. Makes him want to be a better human being, too – a foreign feeling he briefly remembers from when his family was alive, but nothing he cares to think too much about.

Because he's content, these days. As much as it's possible to be.

And if things weren't as they are, he'd let himself daydream about names and hands and soulmates and getting on with his life. But Red John is still looming, is still killing, is still firmly ensconced in his mind – and he won't let him get away with it, won't let him get away _period_.

Red John is _his_.

Nothing is more important.

* * *

Jane closes cases.

 _Jane closes cases._

This is what she needs to remind herself several times each week – mostly so she gets to see the new one without having a mental breakdown, because he's _driving her nuts_.

The first year, she gets to know how mischievous he can be.

At first, it doesn't seem like much – he usually keeps around her so she quickly gets acquainted with his moods, which often range from tired and quiet to grumpy and sad. But sometimes for a brief moment his features brighten, his eyes twinkle with concealed laughter, and a small smile slips on his face – one that disappears as quickly as it came. She soon learns it's a tell – that each time she sees that smile, less than an hour later there _will_ be trouble, and he'll be right in the middle of it, smiling up at her like an eager puppy vying for her attention.

Still, that first year, she also learns how to work with him, how to use his genius to her advantage – and while she never tells him because his ego needs no boost, she genuinely respects his abilities.

She suspects he already knows anyway.

The second year, she realises how _sunny and optimistic_ that man's disposition really is.

He starts smiling more, grinning even, and while she knows it's often a mask to further hide his despair – or his intentions, she isn't always sure – the fact is he seems fleetingly, sincerely happy sometimes. He certainly enjoys moving around the state a lot more than her other team members do – and once when they catch a case up in the mountains, she catches him admiring the scenery and taking deep breaths of fresh air, eyes half-closed in pleasure.

One of his rare perfectly honest moments – and if she was bolder, she would borrow a camera from the CSI tech team to immortalise it.

Just like someone else did, years ago, on the beach at sunrise.

Then he catches her staring and grins a cheeky grin, and she turns away, half-annoyed and embarrassed – but from that moment forward he does it again, and again and again, until it becomes usual to see him enjoying nature's graces wherever they go.

He's learning to live again, right in front of her eyes – and isn't _that_ a beautiful thing to see.

The third year, she starts praying – because one night she realises her days are spent living in fear.

Jane closes cases like a _fiend_ , but Jane is _unhinged_ – and once he starts stepping over boundaries, there's no going back. She tries being patient – his family was murdered four years ago, in no time it'll be five without progress to show, and that must _hurt_. But after a while she has _enough_ , and she yelling at him while he laughs it off soon becomes the only way they communicate. Because he pushes, and pushes, and _pushes_ – and she can't help herself, can't help reacting in spitting anger whenever his actions are taken one step too far over the line. And another. _And another again_.

At first he doesn't seem to understand why she's so angry with him – but soon he makes it a game, and she resents it. Resents _him_. His lack of common sense makes him dangerous to work with, and for the first time since she started working at the CBI, she isn't always able to finish her paperwork before leaving for the day. And when she finally gets home, physically and emotionally exhausted, sometimes she can't avoid crying herself to sleep.

It becomes so bad that placid, unflappable Cho starts expressing concern.

That's when she realises praying isn't enough anymore – even _running_ isn't enough, and she urgently needs a way to unwind. After discarding most of the coping techniques she can think of – Jane will _not_ turn her into an alcoholic – casually hooking up on week-ends suddenly doesn't seem like such a bad idea. She doesn't have time for a boyfriend anyway, she just wants – _needs_ – to relax.

So she does.

And even if she didn't have fun that first time – but she _did_ , and has plans to do it again – Jane's obvious fascination and disbelief when she comes back on Monday, especially as it's followed by a more subdued behaviour for two days, makes it _so worth it_.

Following which they _finally_ find a functional dynamic that works for both of them, and slowly settle into a routine.

 _Success_.

The fourth year they spend working together is more of the same, and they're just getting started on the fifth one when Minelli calls her to his office.

"I have news for you, Lisbon," he says, uncharacteristically sober and serious. "Sit."

She does so, frowning.

"Is this about Jane? I _swear_ , I didn't mean to leave him alone with Juniper Tolliver, it's just – "

"Jane will remain on mandated leave for the next three weeks," he interrupts. "Just as we discussed."

"That's – okay. Alright."

He rubs his chin, places both hands on his desk. She waits.

"First, tell me – how is work with Jane going?"

"Oh, you know," she says, shrugging. "He creates chaos, I clean after him. We close cases."

Her boss nods with a pensive expression.

"Would you rather we fire him?" he asks, throwing her in a loop. "Or give him to another unit? He could work with you on the Red John case only."

"Of course not!" she answers immediately, then stops and bites her lip.

 _Why not?_

"Why not?" asks Minelli, echoing her thoughts. "It seems to me if he's making you miserable – "

"He's not," she says, hesitating. "Well – he _used_ to, but we learned to get pass that, and now we work well together. He's a full member of my team."

She bites her lip again.

"Honestly, Boss – he's _my_ problem," she adds. "A pain in the ass, but _my_ pain in the ass. At least I know how to handle him. I don't think he'd do that good with other units."

 _"Or_ team leaders."

"Or team leaders," she admits. "You know how things are. He's already a walking disaster with _us_ , he'd be terrible with someone else."

"Alright, if you're sure," Minelli says, shifting his stance to lean over his desk. "In two weeks you will get a new team member, a young woman from Cyber Crimes. You asked for someone with computer skills, she asked for more time in the field, seems like a match made in heaven to me. Hopefully this one will last longer than three weeks."

He glances at her, eyebrows raised, and she nods.

 _Message understood._

"We'll be happy to have her. I'll warn her against Jane and tell him to play nice – hopefully he'll listen."

Then she stops talking, waiting for the other shoe to drop – her boss wouldn't ask her in his office for a hire notice, even if it's becoming difficult to find people willing to work with Jane. When he rubs his forehead with his knuckles, a spike of anxiety flashes through her like lightning.

"Well, there's no way around this," he says. "I've been _strongly advised_ to give up the CBI director's chair. Starting next week, someone else is going to be sitting in this chair."

" _What?!_ "

"Of course, I remain Special Agent in Charge," he adds, paying no attention to the way she jumps upright, horrified. "You and your people will still report to me."

" _Boss!_ "

"But this is your last chance to remove Jane from your unit, so if you don't want him around anymore, just say the word."

She swallows convulsively.

"Is this because of the Red John case?" she asks, dread weighting heavily on her mind.

"Lisbon – "

"It is, isn't it? This is happening because some _windpipe_ upstairs thinks I'm not getting results fast enough, and they decided some heads had to roll. What I don't understand is – why are _you_ taking the fall?"

" _Teresa_. Stop it."

He stands up, walks around his desk and puts both hands on her shoulders.

"It's _my job_ to protect my agents," he says slowly – trying to make sure she understands every word.

Problem is, she understands the unspoken ones just as well.

"Why didn't they ask for _my_ removal instead?"

"They would be stupid to fire their best team leader," he answers, raising his eyebrows. "I made sure they knew that before they started talking about removing anyone."

"And that's when they turned on you."

"I have friends in high places. Don't worry about me."

"This is a mess," she groans softly. "I'm so sorry, Boss. Red John is – it's a terrible case."

"I know," he says, smiling a little.

"I promise we'll do everything we can – "

"Oh, stop it," he laughs. "You know as well as I do that nothing can be done when there isn't any evidence. Keep that diplomatic nonsense for all those people Jane insults on a daily basis."

She smiles wryly, a little embarrassed – slipping into default apology mode is so easy these days.

"I needed to tell you first," Minelli says again, sobering up. "Because this will change things. I won't be at the top of the food chain anymore, so if you're sure you still want to keep Jane around – "

"I'm sure."

"Then you will need to be extra cautious about smoothing things up with influential people," he warns her. "What happened in the Tolliver case can _never_ happen again."

"I'll make sure it doesn't," she says, nodding.

"Good," he smiles. "Off you go then," he adds, patting her shoulder twice before settling back behind his desk.

After those news, two weeks without Jane underfoot is a blessing she uses to catch up both on paperwork _and_ sleep. They take just a little more time closing off their cases, but they _do_ catch the killers in the end, with the added benefit of no lawsuit pending.

All in all, it's nearly like having vacations.

Then they catch a new Red John just as they welcome their new team member, Jane is back against his express orders, the case turns out not to be Red John after all, and her stress levels climb through the roof again. He makes a mess of things, of course, and she gets just a little harder on him than she usually would – but all is well in the end, and Rigsby's reflexes are quick enough to avoid a disaster. Most of it, at least.

At no point in those four years does she come back on her first impression.

Jane isn't her soulmate.

 _Thank God._

Then suddenly, perhaps in reaction to the harsh words she had for him in the car, he adds _flirting_ to his arsenal – starting with an adorable jumping paper frog, then later teasing her about romantic dining, and whether _or not_ he would seduce her over a meal.

And sometimes, late at night, she starts wondering again.

* * *

 **Next chapter coming up sometime in January!**


	3. Part 3

_**Disclaimer:**_ _ **As you probably guessed by now, this show and its characters aren't mine.**_

 **A/N:** Happy new year! :) Sorry it took so long to get this out, my holidays in general aren't conductive to being creative.

9k words seems to be my sweet spot for chapters' length, so it may take a bit longer than planned to get to the end of the story – but hey on the other hand, if it takes me two chapters to cover every season instead of one, that means more for you to read. That's good, right?

 **Warning:** Jane has long-term depression, which involves more than just generalised sadness. If this triggers you, please stay safe.

 **Spoilers:** Some dialogues are taken directly from 1.07 "Seeing Red" and 1.09 "Flame Red". Allusion to information given in 3.01 "Red Sky At Night".

* * *

 **Kindred  
Part 3**

Surprisingly, it takes a little over five years before the issue come up between them.

"Do we know who's home?" asks Lisbon as they walk up the house's entryway.

"Until two days ago, the residents were Travis Tennant, Rosemary Tennant and a semi-permanent house guest, name of Jeremy Hale, portrait photographer and Mrs. Tennant's boyfriend according to the gardener and pool guy," answers Rigsby as she rings the doorbell.

" _Dooley! Dooley, come here!_ "

The dog, who jumps out of the house and runs barking across the ground, does a wonderful job of distracting them all – but he turns back just in time to see Lisbon _twitch_.

 _Interesting._

"Can I help you?" asks the man, charming smile in place.

And she twitches _again_ , just before she manages to put her game face on, becomes all business and no more.

"Mister Hale?"

"Yes."

"California Bureau of Investigation. You mind if we come in?"

That she doesn't disclose her name is also unusual – another fascinating piece in this unexpected puzzle, and he finds himself intrigued enough to carefully hold on to that titbit of information. That is, until he can catch her alone and grill her about it.

In the meantime, he has other kinds of snooping around to do.

The opportunity to be nosey doesn't come until later in the day when they're back at headquarters, after laying grounds to catch Travis Tennant. He waits until Cho, Rigsby, and Van Pelt are chained to their desks doing background checks before sauntering to her office.

"You're gunning pretty hard for Jeremy Hale," he says casually.

"Seventy percent of the time, the boyfriend did it," she answers, without looking up from her paperwork.

"Ah."

He grins, steps in and closes the door behind him.

"But this time it's different. You recognised him."

"What are you talking about?"

He rocks on his heels a little, trying to read her accurately – not an easy task when most of her body is hidden behind a desk.

 _Fishing expedition it is_.

"Not a childhood friend, _he_ didn't recognise _you_. That also excludes the ex-boyfriend hypothesis. High-school crush?"

She glares. His grin widens.

"One night stand?"

" _Are you out of your mind?!_ "

"Well, it's a reasonable conclusion to come to. He's charming, probably knows how to give women a good time. He'd be perfect if you needed to – "

"He's a _parasite_ ," she interrupts, spitting out the words like they leave a bad taste in her mouth. "I wouldn't touch him – or let _him_ touch _me_ – even with a ten-feet pole!"

"So it's personal. He must have done something very bad to ruffle your wings like that."

Then he notices how tightly clenched her left fist is – something she does unconsciously every time someone brings up that one _specific_ subject around her.

" _Ah_. It's a _soulmate_ issue."

She throws in a few token protests, but he sees the way blood drains from her face, how she bites the inside of her cheek for a second before forcing herself to calm down. He doesn't know _yet_ what is her issue with soulmates – just that his heart picking up speed every time something reminds him of the name on his own palm isn't conductive to that line of investigation.

At least for the moment.

If he was a better man, he would go to Minelli and ask to be reassigned to another team, or even resign from his current consultant arrangement, ask to work on Red John full-time. Remove himself from _distraction_. But the truth is, he has come to enjoy their company – _her_ company – a lot more than he should, a lot more than he lets on, and not just because he enjoys tricking them. They haven't been marks to him for a while now, even if they're still his favourite audience.

And the way _she_ flushes, the way _her_ eyes sparkle when she's angry –

It's _addictive._

"Is _he_ your soulmate?" he asks, voice softer than he intended it to be. "I mean – I'm fairly sure he isn't, but – "

"What would _you_ know about it, anyway?" she says, frowning – clearly trying to change the subject.

 _What is she trying to hide so badly that she would be willing to deflect my attention from Jeremy Hale to herself?_

"Oh come now, Lisbon, you know he'd be all wrong for you," he grins, willingly taking the bait.

He can get back to that _other_ subject any time he wants, it's not as if he's likely to _forget_ about it – but an occasion to rile her up while picking up new things about her, an occasion she brought up herself? _That_ doesn't come every day.

"I mean, sure, he's probably great for a little _fun_ ," he adds, watching her pink cheeks with delight. "But you would never stand him for more than a night. You like an adventurous side to your men, but you also need them to be reliable."

" _Reliable_ ," she deadpans.

"Yes, yes – reliable, trustworthy, dependable, whatever you want to call it," he says, waving a hand in the air. "Point is – "

 _"Point is_ , none of this is your business and you need to stop prying into my private matters!" she interrupts.

"So, not _your_ soulmate, but someone close to you. Childhood friend?"

"Jane, get out of here, I'm done with your childishness. Go annoy someone else."

"Someone you're fiercely protecting, even now. Hmm. Brother?"

 _"Out!_ " she yells, throwing a pen at him – one he barely sidesteps.

Chuckling, he walks back to his couch in the bullpen. Leaving her to her own devices seems to be the safest option for now – both for his physical integrity and mental balance.

His curiosity is satisfied anyway.

 _Brother it is._

* * *

It takes a full day after they arrested Clara Tennant for him to show up at the office.

Of course he doesn't knock right away – instead stays in the hallway looking around, walking back and forth, making a spectacle of himself. After fifteen minutes of that circus, she has enough.

"Mr. Hale," she says dryly. "May I help you?"

He jumps, eyes widening, frozen on the spot like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Then he blinks twice and nods.

"Uh, yes. I'd like to talk to you. If I may?"

"Close the door behind you," she says, walking back to her desk – intent on putting as much distance between them as possible.

He obeys, reaches to close the blinds before catching her glare – then veers off course and sits before her, quiet and sheepish.

They stay in silence for a moment, each seizing up the other.

"It took me a while to recognise you," he says, voice low. "You didn't introduce yourself the first time we met, so I didn't catch your name back then. But – Teresa _Lisbon_. You're Thomas Lisbon's sister, right?"

"Yes, I am," she says, leaning back in her chair, crossing her arms on her chest.

"We, uh – we met a long time ago. In a hospital, when I was fifteen. You were – younger, barely a teen. Do you remember?"

"I do."

She waits for him to come to his point, unforgiving. He fidgets a bit – and for a second she's reminded of Tommy, the way he used to fidget _just like that_ when he came back home with bad grades, so long ago.

The thought makes her even angrier.

"Is Thomas well?" asks Jeremy suddenly.

"He is. No thanks to you."

"Good," he sighs. " _Good_. Is he, uh – is he single?"

"That's none of your business," she growls, and he recoils on his chair.

"You're right," he whispers, twisting his fingers anxiously. "I'm sorry. I mean – I know I treated him terribly back then, and – but – "

He bites the tip of his thumb. She gets the strange urge to flick his hand and –

 _Tommy did that too, that night._

– grows so uncomfortable she'd say anything to make the feeling go away.

"Tell me, _Jeremy_. When you say you 'treated him terribly', did you mean that time when you publicly insulted and laughed at a ten year old boy until he cried? Or did you mean that other time, when you told your homophobic parents that 'those gay Lisbon kids' were bothering you, and would they please refuse them access to your hospital room?"

"That's _unfair!_ " he says, frowning and with a bit of heat. "Look, I'm sorry, I really am. I know I was a jerk with him when I was fifteen. But _you know_ how it was back then! You've met my parents, you know _how_ they were! Hell, you even know _what I did_ to try and escape from – "

He swallows noisily and leans back. The chair creaks when he shifts his stance, and it grates on her nerves.

"I wasn't strong enough at that time, and _I'm sorry_. Just – don't judge me on the kid I was. I've grown up. We all did."

"I'm sure I don't need to hear _that_."

He nods – shifts again, and looks at her with big puppy eyes.

"Could I get his phone number? So I can tell him I'm sorry?" he asks, so quickly she isn't sure at first she heard it right.

Then the sheer gall of the request breaks the last remnants of her self-control.

" _No!_ No, you can't get his phone number. _How dare you!_ "

He opens his mouth, then closes it without a word.

 _Good. She's not done yet._

"You want me to judge you on your current merits? _Fine_. You're a repulsive, self-centred, womanising free-loader, and you already broke his heart _twice_. What makes you think I'll let you do it a third time?! Your current life is a mess, and soulmate or not, you have _no rights_ to turn over my brother's again."

Just as she takes a breath to yell some more, someone knocks twice on the door.

" _Yes?_ " she snarls.

"Everything alright there, Lisbon?" asks Minelli, poking a concerned face through the opening. "I heard yelling, but seeing as Jane is on his couch – "

"It's fine, Boss," she says, rubbing briefly her forehead with her knuckles before turning a fierce glare on Jeremy. "Mister Hale was just leaving. _Wasn't he?_ "

"Uhm, yes. I was."

He takes his time getting up – meanwhile, Minelli holds her gaze a few seconds before nodding and retreating. The door he left opened hits the wall with a dull sound as her anger abates and shames replaces it.

For a moment there, she forgot where she was – where she _is_.

 _Law enforcement officers are required to act professionally at all times._

"I'm sorry I used inadequate language toward you," she says stiffly, just before he leaves. "It was unprofessional of me and I shouldn't have done that. If you want to issue a formal complaint with the CBI – "

"I don't," he interrupts.

He sighs, and she refrains from doing so – she'll allow herself to feel relief when he's _gone_.

"I didn't come here to cause trouble," he adds, voice low. "It's been over twenty years. And I know it comes late, but I just – just wanted him to know _I'm sorry_. Was hoping perhaps we could, you know. Learn to be friends."

 _I don't want to kiss him, that'd be_ gross _. But we had fun before, when we were playing football. We could be like that. Best friends. Or just_ friends _. Is that weird?_

She clenches and unclenches her teeth, because she _really_ doesn't want to, but she knows in the end she can't deny that request. Not when he words it that way – not when half his body language reminds her so clearly of Tommy, of a kid's heartbreak and a twenty years old despair.

It doesn't mean she has to _like_ it.

"Give me your phone number," she says abruptly, rolling her eyes – angry at herself for giving in so easily. "I'll pass it on to him. If _he_ wants to call you, he will."

" _Thank you_ ," he exhales, quickly jotting down numbers on a piece of paper – so _pathetically happy_ she nearly recoils away from him.

Once he's finally – _finally, finally_ – gone, she takes a few minutes to try and squash down her disgust, clear her mind, fend off the lump that threatens to choke her each time she looks at the name and number written on the small piece of paper.

Calling Tommy right away wouldn't be a good idea.

 _Jeremy hurt her little brother and deserves all the suffering he gets._

While she has her faults – and they are many, she knows, because _human beings are not perfect angels_ – she always prided herself on being a good person at heart. And Tommy doesn't deserve suffering. Tommy deserves to be presented with a real opportunity with his soulmate.

Calling now would only cement hate and resentment, because she can't keep an open mind about Jeremy right now – the mere idea of trying to convince her brother to _perhaps_ give him a chance makes her nauseous.

So she picks up the slip of paper, folds and hides it between two pages in her planner – knowing she'll find it at a later date, once she'll have forgotten all about it.

She should be able to call him then, with the immediate irritation abated.

At least she hopes so.

* * *

He feels tired.

Tired and worn-out and sad, and he just wants to forget that the world exists – forget about Kristina Frye and the deliberate destruction she left in her wake.

The SCU isn't on call duty this coming week-end, which means he can take personal time. Use it to drive back to Malibu for a couple days – drive back _home_ , where he'll find loneliness and memories and renewed purpose, two lives' worth of tragedy and his wife's blood on a white wall.

In the meantime, however, it's still Thursday morning.

Two more days to go.

Two days before he can snuggle under the blankets on his daughter's mattress and forget about being alive. Or, if one wants to be precise – counting the six hours drive, and perhaps a few stops on the way to get food and tea – thirty-nine hours and eleven minutes.

 _An eternity._

But now that he thinks of it, tea _would_ help – so he pulls himself from the cold leather of his couch, rubs his eyes to make sure he only looks tired, not sad, and trudges his way to the small kitchenette near the bullpen.

"Oh hey Jane," says Grace, smiling. "I just put the kettle on, it should be ready in a few minutes."

She still feels guilty for her outburst last week – it's obvious in the way she refuses to meet his eyes, in the way she fidgets each time they find themselves in close quarters. And while the mean part of him thinks she deserves it, it's more of a hassle than anything seeing as they still have to spend time with each other every day. He just hopes she gets over it soon – work in those conditions is becoming uncomfortable.

"Thanks," he says, side-stepping her on his way to the cupboard.

No teal cup. He frowns.

"Did you see my cup?" he asks, bouncing twice to see past the coffee mugs.

"The blue one? I think Lisbon took it earlier."

"Lisbon? Why would she do that?"

 _She knows it's my favourite cup._

"I don't know. But Jane, listen," she starts, and it speaks of how out of sorts he is that he didn't anticipate and prevent this. "I wanted you to know I'm really, _really_ sorry about what I said the other day."

"It's alright, Van Pelt. Forget about it. I'm fine."

"I was out of line," she insists. "And I should know better than to say something like that to you. Especially to you."

He pauses, then turns to her.

"That's interesting. Why would you give me a free pass? Is it because my family was murdered?"

"No! I mean – _yes_ , that too, but – "

"You don't need to walk on eggshells around me, Van Pelt. I can handle what I dish out once in a while."

"Yes, but I mean – it's not _that_. It's just – it's a terrible thing to lose your soulmate, and I should have been more careful in my wording."

He blinks, then stares, trying to make sense of what she's saying. When he finally gets it, he chuckles.

"I agree, you _should_ be more careful. But you assumed wrong. My wife, she wasn't my soulmate."

"She wasn't?" she says, astonished.

"She wasn't?" echoes Rigsby, walking in. "Oh. I always thought that too."

"Why would you think that?" he asks, genuinely puzzled.

"Because of your wedding ring," says Cho, going straight to the coffee machine. "They think you would have moved on by now if she wasn't your soulmate."

He frowns, eyes dropping to the plain golden band on his finger.

"And what about you, Cho?" he snarks, a small bubble of anger popping in his mind. "What did _you_ think?"

"I think you should move on."

He swallows, twirling his ring around his finger. The kettle behind them lets out a loud hiss before coming to a stop – and it would be the perfect distraction to this conversation he doesn't want to have _if only he had his cup_.

"Well, we don't all grieve the same way," he says, voice low and quiet. " _Rigsby_ at least should know that."

"Huh?"

"He's talking about the scar on your hand," translates Cho.

"Oh," says Rigsby, eyes dropping to his own palm. "Right."

" _You lost your soulmate?_ " asks Van Pelt, compassion etched all over her features. "Oh Wayne. I'm _so_ sorry."

"Oh, it's no big deal," the tall man answers with a goofy grin. "She died when I was, like, two maybe? I don't remember it at all."

"Not even the pain?"

"What pain?" he interrupts, frowning – drawing attention to himself again.

"When your soulmate's about to die, it burns," explains Cho. "Then it scars over."

"Are you sure? Nobody ever told me about that," says Rigsby.

"Really? I thought everyone knew," says Grace, still eyeing the scar in his palm.

"Yeah, _you_ don't because you already have a scar. Most people do."

He's amused to see Rigsby isn't listening at all – lapping up Van Pelt's attention instead.

"Mine gets hot and stings sometimes – _that_ doesn't happen often," adds Cho. "Figured it must be a warning for life-threatening danger."

"Mine does that too!"

Grace's expression is interesting, halfway between horror and excitement. It doesn't take him long to realise why.

"You just figured out who your soulmate is, didn't you?" he grins.

"No! I mean – _maybe_ ," she smiles, all dreamy dimples and red cheeks. "There was this wide receiver in NFL a few years ago, he had the same name, so I though – well I didn't _really_ think it was him, but – "

"But you were _hopeful_ , because he was famous and at the time, you still were a pretty wallflower – and what little girl doesn't want to have a famous soulmate? Plus you both like football, that's a great icebreaker."

"Yeah," she laughs. "Anyway, he didn't stay in the league that long. Last I heard of him, he quit to apply at Quantico. So if my hand becomes hot, and he's in law enforcement – that would make sense, wouldn't it?"

"That, or he lives in a war zone," says Cho.

"Dude, come on!" says Rigsby, frowning. "Don't say things like that."

They bicker a bit more but he stops paying attention, distracted by a stray thought – did he ever feel his hand burning? It seems impossible that he didn't. Why, just a month ago Lisbon nearly got shot by that ranger who killed Kara Palmer, and she barely escaped with her life. But he was so focused at the time on saving her with that phone trick, and she's a cautious person, she doesn't find herself _often_ in life or death situation, so trying to come up with memories of warmth or pain in his left hand he can't attribute to anything else is more difficult than he –

And then he startles, swallows convulsively – he's threading dangerous territories now, thinking about the name on his palm in relation to _her_.

It seems his mind already decided she _is_.

This though, this could be important. This could prove she really _isn't_. After all, he never saw her react oddly in any way, either to him or to his name. He didn't _search_ for a reaction either, so it doesn't mean anything, and the obvious way to find out would be _to get a look_ at her hand, but –

But if _he can't remember_ his hand burning when she was in a life-threatening situation, then _maybe he wouldn't have to_ –

"Jane? Are you alright?"

Grace's soft voice breaks his focus, brings him back head first into reality – a place where ultimately, it doesn't matter if he ever felt his hand burning or not.

It doesn't matter if she's his soulmate or not.

It won't change what happened.

 _It won't change his goal._

"Of course I am," he says, smiling as cheerily as he can.

"So uh, just to be clear – your wife _really_ wasn't your soulmate?" asks Rigsby, promptly elbowed on both sides. "Ouch! Why would you do that?"

He chuckles. Raises his left hand, bares his palm to their eyes.

"She really wasn't. See? No scar," he says, then smirks when he sees Rigsby's crestfallen expression. "Wait, did you guys take _bets_ on that?"

"We would never!" says Grace, horrified.

"We might have," admits Rigsby at the same time.

"Yeah, we did," says Cho. "Told you. Pay up," he adds, turning to his partner.

"That – that's so _callous!_ I can't believe you would bet on something like that!"

" _There_ you are. What are you all doing here?" interrupts Lisbon, walking in with her travel mug.

He quickly drops his hand, hides it in his pocket.

"Settling a bet," he grins. "Tell me Lisbon, were you also convinced my wife was my soulmate?"

She blinks. Clearly his question interrupted her train of thought.

"To be honest, the idea never even crossed my mind," she answers bluntly, eyebrows raised.

"Really?" he asks, cocking his head slightly to the side.

 _She's not lying._

"No! Anyway, why would I think about that? The identity of one's soulmate is a private matter," she says. "And _I_ respect other people's privacy, _unlike someone I know_ ," she adds, glaring at him.

But she's frowning now, obviously pondering the question – and seeing her bothered and distracted about the issue makes his grin genuine, especially when she doesn't notice their team mates slinking back to their desks before she can think of berating them for the bet.

"She wasn't," he says offhandedly.

She glances at him sideways, pushes the reheat button on the coffee maker – and instead of waiting for an answer he isn't sure is coming anyway, he changes the subject.

Gratefully.

"By the way, Grace told me you took my cup earlier. Where did you put it? I find myself in dire need of tea."

"Your cup? Oh yeah. They hired a new team leader, his name's Haffner I think? He came in earlier looking for mugs and teacups for their cupboards – I figured, better keep that one away. It's on your desk."

"I have a desk?"

"Yes – you know, that _wooden thing_ you never use against the wall in the back of the bullpen."

She looks at him. He returns a blank stare.

"You pile half your books on it," she sighs impatiently.

"That's my _desk?_ "

" _Yes._ You have a _chair_ , too."

"Yes, yes – back to the desk. It looks nothing like yours! I thought it was a convenient table to pile unfinished paperwork. How was I to know it was _my desk?_ It could belong to a kindergartner."

"Well, that sounds about right," she teases him.

He crosses his arms, mock-pouting. She chuckles.

"I can ask Minelli for an upgrade," she says. "But I don't see why he should bother – you're always sleeping on the couch anyway! Why don't you use your assigned chair for a change, hmm? Let him see you're _a professional_ , give him an incentive to get better accommodations?"

"I would, but it lacks the comfort of a couch. Besides, it's _my_ couch," he grins.

She rolls her eyes, but he doesn't miss her lips quirking up for a second.

"Thank you Lisbon," he adds after a while.

"Whatever for?" she asks, pouring hot coffee into her travel mug.

"For saving my favourite teacup from the grubby hands of this Haffner person, of course!" he says, lightly bouncing on his feet. "I shall now consider it my sole property and celebrate our union by making myself some tea. In _my cup_. Which is currently sitting on _my desk_. Which I will move near to _my couch_ , to make sure I never forget it's _mine_."

She rolls her eyes again, this time not bothering to hide her smile – and he suddenly feels the overpowering, _unwelcome_ urge to hug her. Because she _cares_ , and it's been so long since someone had that kind of special attention toward him.

He's grateful when she doesn't linger in the kitchen, removing herself – removing _temptation_ – from his immediate vicinity.

 _Fool._

"Your tea will have to wait," she says, walking back to the bullpen. "Minelli called, we caught a high profile case in Davis. Let's go!"

 _Don't get attached._

* * *

"We've never discussed this, because I thought it went without saying," he says several days later, an intense look on his face. "But when I catch Red John, I'm gonna cut him open and watch him die slowly, like he did with my wife and child."

The words are so plain, for a second she isn't sure she understood them well. But his eyes are uncompromising, and she feels the start of a headache coming in.

"Now if you have a problem with that, we should talk," he then adds, smiling aggressively.

"Then let's talk," she answers.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn't go well.

He leaves her office on a last barb, shoulders thrown back in an odd display of prideful posturing, spine stiff with _hurt_ – neither of those things part of his usual body language. Her mind stuck between stunned anger and pained aggravation, she's left staring after him as he walks back to his couch and plops himself down with enough attitude to throw off a seven years old.

And she won't deal with this.

She _won't_ deal with this, because –

 _Sam._

– the last time she did, it cost her far more than she was ever willing to pay. And that was when one friend decided to spring his whole vigilante situation on her once it was a done deal – following, _abetting_ Jane on this noxious path of revenge is another matter entirely.

She _won't._

Working quickly proves itself impossible.

It's not that she doesn't want to, she tries as hard as she can to focus on what she has to do – but every few minute, her gaze travels to the bullpen against her will until she reminds herself that there's nothing to be done about it. Jane is Jane, and will remain Jane whether she likes it or not. She swallows hard, averts her eyes, tries to focus on her work again – meaningless paperwork, complaints and reports, things she forgets about as soon as her eyes wander toward him again.

Evening falls slowly.

Cho and Rigsby left a while ago to stake out near Machado's house, then called in to follow a new lead – the phone call distracts her for a while. But when Van Pelt tells her she's leaving for the night, she realises Jane isn't on his couch anymore.

"Jane? He left half an hour ago," says Van Pelt when she asks. "Is everything alright, Boss?"

"It's fine," she says dismissively.

Van Pelt nods, wishes her good night, leaves without lingering – she knows what that voice tone means.

 _The price of power_.

But Van Pelt had the right idea – it's getting late. There's nobody left in the bullpen, probably nobody left on the floor either, and they're not on call tonight. The clever thing to do would be to wrap up the paperwork and leave, get home, eat something and take a hot bath. Find a way to relax and rest as much as possible before tomorrow morning.

Before she has to deal with Jane again.

She buries her face in her hands.

 _Please God, give me strength. I don't want to deal with this again. I can't. I just can't._

"Hey, you alright?"

She jumps, badly startled – standing in the door is Sam, looking over her with a worried expression.

" _No_ ," she says, trying to control her voice – failing.

He blinks, unaccustomed to this level of honesty from her, but comes in and closes the door. With a few quick movements around the room, he closes the blinds, too – then stops near her elbow and puts a tentative hand on her shoulder.

"What's wrong?" he asks, and the gentleness in his voice makes her feel like crying.

 _But she won't, won't, won't._

She looks up, meets his eyes.

"Was there _ever_ ," she asks, voice rough and raw and half-broken. "Was there ever a way to _stop you?_ "

He doesn't need to ask which time – what happened back then broke them both and hangs between them since. He takes her elbow instead, guides her to the couch on which he sits first before she agrees to do the same.

"If there was a way, Sam, you _have_ to tell me," she babbles, so close to tears she can feel them dampening her eyelashes. "Please, _please_ tell me. There had to be something I didn't do? Something I _should_ have done?"

"There wasn't," he says, soft and firm and adamant. "You know that. I did what I did because there wasn't any other way to stop him. He was targeting teen boys. Don't you remember?"

"Yeah," she nods dejectedly. "He taunted you, didn't he? About your son? So if he didn't say anything, maybe you wouldn't have – "

But Sam is shaking his head, and she swallows convulsively, stops talking.

"I knew the evidence we had wasn't enough to get a conviction, but I pushed anyway because I wanted to believe in the law," he admits, looking right at her – and she sees the shadows lurking behind his eyes.

She knows how much this cost him. In the end, way more than it cost _her_ – but _damned_ if she lets Jane turn out the same.

"His taunts were just the last straw when the law let you down," she whispers.

"I had to do _something_ ," he says, and while his voice remains firm, his features are begging her to understand – just like he did that night, so many years ago.

And she does. That's the worst thing in this whole situation – she _does_ understand why he did it, she _knows_ , and faced with the same choice, she isn't completely sure she wouldn't do the exact same thing.

It scares her, deep down.

How easily could she be swayed from the lawful path if she faced that kind of trial?

"What do you call what you did?" she asks, feeling him becoming tense beside her. "Justice or vengeance?"

He takes a few minutes to ponder, understanding without needing to be told how important the question is, how badly she needs his answer.

"The law calls it vigilantism," he offers in the end, with a levelled expression. "And whenever possible, I do my best to follow the law."

 _But I think it was justice_ , is the thought left unsaid – one he lets her read on his face instead. He trusts he did the right thing, and she can't really disagree, considering. Even if some tiny part of her still believes she _could_ have stopped him, had she known.

 _The real question is, would she?_

"What is this really about?" he asks suddenly, sensing her mood change. "You didn't start thinking about what happened back then all of a sudden. The Teresa I know avoids those heart-to-heart conversations like the plague."

She averts her eyes, takes a deep breath, quickly wills herself to come up with a believable lie – anything to avoid talking about her tangled situation with Jane. She's still trying to find something clever to say when a sharp sting in the middle of her hand breaks her concentration.

"Ouch!"

"Are you okay?" asks Sam immediately, brows furrowed.

"Yeah, sorry. It's nothing, my hand – it heats up sometimes, stings a bit. Nothing to worry about."

"You should see a doctor," he says, still frowning. "What if it happens when you're on the job? Could cause trouble if you're trying to shoot."

"I saw one last year, they didn't find anything. It's not my dominant hand anyway – and it doesn't happen that often, so it's no trouble really. You know I'm good enough of a shot that I can still aim one-handed if I need to. With _any_ hand."

He stares. She sighs.

"I'm _fine_ , Sam. Really."

"Did you consider it could be a, uh, _soulmate_ thing?" he asks, watching her carefully.

"What? Of course not. How could it have anything to do with – hang on, my phone's ringing. Sorry, I need to take this," she says, jumping up and bringing the device to her ear. "Lisbon."

"We've had trouble," Cho says in his usual succinct way, and she's never been happier to hear those words.

Neither Jane's situation nor _soulmates_ are topics she cares to discuss with Sam.

Or anyone, really.

"What did he do this time?" she growls, rolling her eyes upward.

"Nearly burned himself to death. We're bringing Machado in, he confessed to the murder of Dave Martins. We've also arrested Tommy Olds."

"The mentally challenged kid?" she frowns. "Why?"

"Tried to run from the crime scene."

"Wait. _What_ crime scene?"

There's a scuffle on the other side of the line, and wordless exclamations – loud enough that she has to move the phone away from her ear, all the while doing her best to ignore Sam's disapproving frown.

"Lisbon! Lisbon! You still there?" Jane's tiny voice suddenly calls from the device, and she brings it back into hearing range.

"I'm here, Jane," she says. "What's going on?"

"Cho was telling the story all wrong! Couldn't let such a good one go to waste."

" _That's_ why you stole his phone?!"

"Would there be any other reason? So let me tell you. It started earlier when – "

And she uses the hand she's rubbing her forehead with to hide the smile growing on her lips as he recounts his tale, completely hyped up with adrenaline from another successful con. Because she genuinely enjoys his antics, even if she dislikes the pitfalls – something she'll deny to her dying breath if anyone asks. And she especially enjoys being witness to his happiness, a simple and boyish, exuberant, _rare_ emotion that never fails to brighten his features. That _nearly_ makes him laugh – really laugh.

She's never seen him laugh.

"Are you _sure_ you're alright?" she asks again, once he's done telling her how he broke at least three different laws and nearly got himself killed _twice_ to register a confession that probably won't be admissible in court.

She's _fussing_ , she knows, but can't help herself. Not tonight, not with Sam's eyes boring into her back, not with Sam's word still ringing into her ears and the ghost sensation of a sting in her palm.

 _It's much easier to yell at him when she can see with her own eyes that he's fine._

"Right as rain! Oh, and talking about rain – did you know, they said on the radio that the weather in Marquesa is going to – turn – _tomor_ – " he says, and she can nearly _hear_ his smile before he interrupts himself coughing. "A bit of smoke inhalation maybe," he adds ruefully. "I'm fine."

"You should get yourself checked out in the hospital."

"Meh. Frauds in white coats."

"Jane, _seriously_."

"Seriously! _Oops_. Lisbon, gotta go, Cho's coming back with a _huge_ – "

 _Click._

If she rolls her eyes once more, she swears they'll get stuck that way – and she's intimate enough with the sight of CBI ceilings as it is.

"Sounds like you're supervising kids, not agents," says Sam, voice neutral and controlled.

"Jane's not an agent."

"That's my point."

She shrugs.

"He's not the most professional member of my team, but he closes cases."

He nods slowly, gets up – two steps closer, and he stops just before breaching her personal space. She didn't realise it before, but he does that a lot. Of course, Jane does too – but Jane is always pushing back the limits, always scheming and teasing. When Sam does it, it's... different somehow. Tender. Protective.

 _Safer_ , perhaps.

"Did you figure out if he's your soulmate yet?"

Then again, not _all_ the time.

"My _what?_ No! He's not."

"Then... are you in love with him?"

"Of course not, why would you ever think that?" she frowns, laughs a little.

Pretends it doesn't matter if he asks – doesn't make her uncomfortable.

Doesn't think about _why_.

"Did you ever notice how your voice runs high when you lie?"

She busies herself with her phone, avoids his searching gaze.

 _Oh, look at that, it needs charging._

"I'm not lying," she says, turning her back on him to pick up the charger near her desk. "I care, _yes_ – the same way I care for the rest of my team. Or _you_ , for that matter. And he's _not_ my soulmate – can't be."

"Did you check his palm?"

 _"No_ ," she groans, starting to feel annoyance.

And it's true. Even when he uses hand gestures to try and play her, with card tricks or – or pretending to read her mind, for example, like he did earlier, he's always careful to cover the inside of his left palm with folded fingers. How strange is that?

 _Not very strange. I do the same all the time._

"But he would've said something if he was, wouldn't he?" she adds.

"You don't mean to say you've never even _talked_ about it?" Sam asks, voice laced with disbelief. "For God's sake, Teresa, you've been working with the guy for nearly _five years!_ "

"Guess that means he _isn't_ , don't you think?" she says, challenging – _challenging_ , not _defensive_.

"Your left hand _hurts_ , and then you suddenly learn a few seconds later he nearly killed himself with another stunt – I think that would argue in favour of the fact that _he is_."

She still isn't looking at him – but then he steps further into her personal space and puts a hand just at the junction between shoulder and arm, and her left hand closes tightly on itself.

"Look," he says quietly. "No point in denying I think you deserve better. But don't you want to _know?_ "

 _Sometimes I wish for impossible things_ , he said all those years ago, with a fresh scar in his palm and a soulful, searching gaze. And sometimes she does, too. But that specific question she isn't sure she want answered. Not now. Not with the conversation they had this afternoon.

 _When I catch Red John, I'm gonna cut him open and watch him die slowly, like he did with my wife and child._

She can still hear the violence dripping from his words, and she still _can't deal with it_.

"I have to go," she says, shaking him off and opening the door. "Cho's bringing in two murder suspects, I need to set up the holding cells, the interview rooms – "

"Of course."

He nods, walks out – waits for her in the bullpen with an all too knowing gaze she'd be happy to avoid for the rest of her life, and leaves after wishing her good night.

The very next day, for a few blessed minutes she fools herself into believing Jane changed his mind about killing Red John – he disillusions her quickly, of course, and the embittered sentence turning around in her mind is _I wish I could change you_.

But then he grins and takes her hand, his right thumb briefly caressing her left palm in apology, and runs under the rain with her – catching water drops on his tongue while he waits for her to open the car door, and she realises she doesn't want him to change _at all_.

She'll have to best him, somehow.

Or change herself.

* * *

Early mornings in the bullpen are often the highlights of his weeks.

He finds fleeting joy elsewhere, of course – in using his cleverness to trap criminals, in the cons themselves. In beauty and nature. In teasing Rigsby about Van Pelt and Van Pelt about Rigsby, in discussions with Cho. In making Lisbon smile against her will when she's trying to chide him.

 _Especially that last one._

But most of those moments are shared with other human beings, while early mornings are his alone. Nobody to tease him, nobody to tease back – nobody to call his name or kick his couch when he loses himself staring at the dust floating lazily in warm rays of sunlight. Nobody to glance at him with worry when he has insomnia several days in a row, or when he forgets himself and talks to his girls.

And _silence_.

But not the frightening, anxiety-inducing silence that comes with death. _That_ one he hates, _that_ one still oppresses him in his nightmares. _That_ one comes with wooden floorboards creaking under his heavy footsteps and the pervasive scent of blood.

No, _this_ silence is welcome, _this_ one is an old friend – the kind of silence coming from complete lack of human presence, with faint electric buzzing in the distance and the peacefulness that he only ever associated with _home_.

It's easy to pretend, with this one – easy to close his eyes, lie to himself and linger on the memories of his wife's breathing, of his daughter's sleep grunts and snores. Easy to imagine being back in time, his lovely, _lively_ wife and child just around the corner.

Just out of sight.

Not something he indulges in often. Reality always comes crashing down – and those days, sadness often follows him around like a rain cloud, only kept at bay by acting out as much as he can.

But not all mornings are sad, and most of the time he enjoys the serenity, the _numbness_ of watching the sunrise by his lonesome.

Then again –

 _Footsteps?_

"Good morning Jane!"

 _Hmmm._

"Good morning Grace," he answers, eyes closed, still wrapped up in the supple leather of his couch. "You're early."

"Yeah, the storm yesterday night messed up with my internet connexion," she says, making an awful lot of noise in the general vicinity of her desk. "I wanted to make sure I had enough time to check my emails."

"A _whole hour_ for emails? What a popular girl you are."

She doesn't answer, but he can _hear_ her getting flustered – her breathing picks up, she becomes more clumsy, she mutters to herself. Which is perfect and exactly what he was after – he doesn't care about what she really wants to do on the internet, but an annoyed, reactive Grace _almost_ makes up for his ruined quietude.

He lets her rattle on her keyboard for some time before getting up – carefully, so she won't notice him until the last moment.

"Soulbook," he reads over her shoulder.

"Jane!" she jumps – her first reaction being to cover the screen, then turning over to scowl.

He grins, unrepentant.

"So, _Soulbook_. What is it?" he asks, gesturing toward the blue and grey themed website.

Just as he intended, her disbelief before his computer illiteracy trumps her irritation over his nosiness.

"You don't know Soulbook?" she gaps. " _Everybody_ uses it today! I can't believe you've never heard about it."

"Meh, I've never pretended to know anything about computers," he says ruefully. "So, what is it? A dating service?"

She looks momentarily embarrassed, and his grin widens.

" _No_ ," she says, still flustered. "It's a social media – you use it to keep contact with your friends, make new ones, keep track of professional and social events. Even the CBI uses it for self-promotion and fund raising. When it started it was to help people find their soulmate, but it evolved into so much more."

"Really? Interesting. How does _that_ work?"

"Do you want me to set up an account for you?" she asks, smiling.

"Show me how it works first," he says, thumb lightly tapping his lip.

With a quick manoeuvre, she logs out and clicks on a few pages in succession. Then she turns toward him, cheerful.

"Here you go! To register, they ask for your name, your gender, your birth date, your country, the name of your soulmate, the schools you went to – "

"Extensive," he says, reading over her shoulder again. "I don't think I had to give half of that information when I was hired _here_."

"Most of the answers aren't confidential," she shrugs. "And there's a privacy option, too – you have to write the information down, but you don't have to show it to the rest of the world. Anyway, they need it – if you want them to help you find your soulmate, they have to know those things."

"Why is that?"

"It works that way," she shrugs once more. "When someone with information matching yours registers, it sends an alert to both people so you can meet. If you live far away from each other, Soulbook gives you a selection of halfway meeting places, and if it's _really_ far and you don't have the financial means to get there by yourself, you can apply to one of their help programs and get free plane tickets in exchange for – you know what, I'm not quite sure what they ask for in exchange, but we can check if you want."

"It seems well thought out," he says, eyebrows raised.

"It is!" she beams.

It also seems very unsafe, he thinks. But Grace is already filling in his information – even his birth date. He smiles, amused despite himself. She obviously took a leaf out of his book, indulged her inner nosiness in his personal files.

 _She probably read Lisbon's, too – she'd want to know what to expect from a boss. Wonder if she did the same for Cho and Rigsby?_

"There you go! Only your soulmate's name left."

"That was quick," he teases. "You know an awful lot about me, did I really tell you all of this?"

She averts her eyes, clears her throat.

"So, what is it?" she asks, in an obvious attempt to avoid answering.

 _A question for a question, that's not exactly subtle... Gracie Grace, you have still so much to learn._

"What is what?"

"Your soulmate's name?"

"What about it?"

 _"What is your soulmate's name?_ " she growls.

"Teresa Lisbon," he answers flippantly.

She glares. He grins.

"You know, if you _didn't want_ a Soulbook account, you just had to _tell me_ ," she says, shaking her head and logging back in on her own page. "No need to mess with my head."

His grin widens because – _really?_ He told her the truth. That he knew she would react that way is irrelevant, of course, as well as the fact he would never take that risk if he thought for one second she would believe him. With a chuckle, he squeezes lightly her shoulder, a hint of apology in the familiar gesture.

"I have no interest in finding my soulmate," he says gently. "Always found the whole soulmate thing vastly overrated. Even with that internet device, the odds are against us finding each other, and I have neither time nor interest for – _dating_ or the likes."

"Well, I find that very sad," she mutters, eyes glued on the screen.

"Why is that?" he shrugs, casual smile on his lips. "I don't. There's nothing to say we'd be made for each other anyway."

Van Pelt turns around, looking shocked.

"How can you say that?! Soulmates are – it's all in the name! _Mates of the soul_. Of course they're made for each other!"

"My parents were soulmates," he says, eyebrows raised. "They were miserable together. In fact, the most happy couples I know aren't soulmates at all."

"Well, _my_ parents are soulmates, and they're very happy," she frowns, defensive. "And I – I want that for myself, too. Is that a crime?"

"Not at all, Grace," he answers, both hands raised to appease her. "Not at all."

" _Good_ ," she says a bit peevishly, turning back to her computer. "And stop reading over my shoulder, it's very rude," she adds when he doesn't move.

A blinking tile appears in the right corner, distracting her. _Dan Hollenbeck_ , it says.

"Is _he_ your soulmate?" he asks instead of leaving, cocking his head to the side.

"No, he's a – friend," she says, bashful, her fingers flying on the keyboard.

"And is your soulmate on that internet website?" he says, amused by the slight blush colouring her cheeks.

Clearly that Dan person is more than a _friend_.

"I've never had any soulmate alert," she answers distractedly, only half of her attention on him. "But that doesn't mean he _isn't_ on Soulbook. Some people write false names so they won't be bothered, so, you know. Maybe he did the same."

"False names?"

"Yeah. Wait, I'll show you."

She clicks on a few links, then beckons him forward.

"That's Cho's page," she says. "See?"

 _Nonof Yurdam-Biznès_ , says a line below his name. He chuckles.

"So I'm not the only one uninterested in soulmates," he says teasingly.

"I don't know if it's because they aren't _interested_ ," says Grace, rolling her eyes. "Lisbon did the same – "

"Did she now?" he says, tapping his thumb against his bottom lip.

"Yeah, but hers is more polite," she laughs, clicking again until she reaches the woman's page.

 _That's Private_ is written under the picture of a dog – one he sees every time he snoops in her office.

"I don't think it's because she isn't interested," she repeats, glancing up inquisitively. "Lisbon is just a bit – you know. She doesn't share a lot."

 _She's a bit difficult and paranoid when it comes to personal stuff_ , is the unsaid thought he reads all over her face. One that makes him chuckle again because the truth is, it's pretty accurate. The only difference is, where Van Pelt looks a bit annoyed with her assertion, he finds it _endearing_.

Perhaps because he finds her so easy to read, and in the end, even with her guarded attitude she can't hide much from him.

Or perhaps because he's _aware_ of Lisbon in a way Grace isn't.

 _Stop._

 _Stop that right now._

Grace is back to chatting with her friend Dan, and while he'd love to snoop around a bit more – _distract himself further_ – he can hear voices and footsteps coming their way. A quick look at the clock up the wall makes him realise he already spent forty-five minutes butting in Van Pelt's business. And she only tried to kick him back to his couch once.

 _That must be a new personal record_.

He sighs.

Settles down on his couch.

 _I should have used that time to review the Red John case._

As _happy_ as bothering Van Pelt makes him, he's starting to feel restless and guilty again. Dissatisfaction often takes over his mind since Renfrew's death – in less than four months, it'll be six years since Red John killed his family.

 _What did I accomplish in all those years?_

"Jane?"

 _Nothing.  
_

"Jane!"

 _Dead ends, that's all I've got._

"JANE!"

He blinks. Grace isn't at her desk anymore, and Lisbon is looking at him from barely three feet away, worry and annoyance battling on her features.

 _When did she get there?_

"Hey," she says, frowning. "You alright?"

"I'm fine," he answers, bland smile stretching his lips. "Where's Van Pelt?"

"In the parking lot with Rigsby. We have a case. You coming?"

"Of course. Where are we going?"

"Resort in Calistoga, there was a shooting last night. Come on."

He gets up, stretches his legs a bit to shake off the strange feeling of disorientation – and saunters to the elevator after her, trying for _normal_.

He knows he _failed_ when her small fingers ghost over his elbow for half a second, just as he slides open the door of the SUV.

* * *

 **Next chapter... err... give me three weeks, just to be on the safe side.**

My apartment has terrible insulation and it's hard to be creative when it rarely gets over 13C/55F inside (let's not talk about _outside_ ).

Friendly reminder:

Don't take everything at face value. My narrators are humans, thus unreliable – so they _will_ lie to themselves in their own musings sometimes, and they have no control on the lies (untruths or omissions) other characters tell them. Don't worry – there will be no retcons, as most of the major twists are already planned by now. If relevant, the information will find its way back in further chapters.


	4. Interlude: Bloodshot

_**Disclaimer: As you probably guessed by now, this show and its characters aren't mine.**_

 **A/N:** Thanks to all the guest reviewers I can't answer to directly, your kind words make me very happy and help a lot when I find myself in a bind over a scene. And a huge thank you to **LouiseKurylo** , **Thorntons** and **FiascoWay** who helped tremendously in setting the finer points of this alternate "Soulmate World". Their very specific questions and pertinent comments had me spend a lot of time coming up with answers, the results of which can be partly seen in this chapter. So very grateful to you!

 **Warnings:** Jane is passively suicidal – something I believe the show went to great lengths to prove, but as your mileage may vary on that one I'd rather warn about it. If this triggers you in any way, please stay safe.  
Also, remember the warnings on Part 1? It starts now.

 **Spoilers:** Some dialogues are taken directly from 1.16 "Bloodshot".

* * *

 **Kindred**  
 **Interlude: Bloodshot**

 _There's a very large bomb nearby. Are you smart enough to find it?_

For a second, just a small second, she entertains the notion that Jane is messing with her. That there isn't _really_ a bomb nearby. That it's just a mean prank and he'll break into a teasing grin as soon as she calls him out.

Any moment now.

Then she sees his face, and any idea that this might be a joke escapes her mind.

He's _terrified_.

Oh, he hides it well – but with years passing, she learned to recognise that _no-tell tell_ of his. The blank features, serious stare, barely parted lips – and the quick breathing he can't keep under control.

She whips out her own phone and calls Minelli.

"Boss? We've got a situation."

Left hand cradling the device, she glances his way. Coiled on himself like a spring about to jump, he isn't moving at all – but he's so tense she could swear there are vibrations in the air around him.

"It's going to be fine, Jane," she mouths off silently as Minelli gives his orders. "We've had drills for this situation, remember? It's going to be _fine_."

His gaze isn't focussed enough that she can be sure he saw and understood – so she raises her hand, puts it on his arm. Her initial goal was to direct his attention elsewhere, focus his mind on something else than fear – but as soon as her fingers make contact with his biceps, he lets out a sharp breath and loses his thrumming energy, just as if connected to a grounding system. His expression clears, and though he stays there leaning slightly into her hand, she can see his brain getting back in gears.

And she suddenly realises Jane _needs physical contact to survive_.

She should have seen the signs long ago, should have known right as they met actually – what man but a touch-deprived one would give a hug to a stranger who tried to protect him by keeping him away from the only thing he wished for?

 _That would explain his recent flirting, all those sudden casual touches I couldn't make sense of._

 _It's easy_ for her to use her position as an excuse to keep people at a distance – she's never been into that touchy-feely stuff, even as a child, and she was always careful to meet her physical needs far away from the job.

 _It's easy_ to assume her colleagues do the same, because of her refusal to share anything related to their personal life. They're efficient in their everyday tasks, and it's all she asks of them really – Jane could spend his nights in poker clubs, Rigsby could become a pick-up artist, Van Pelt could join a yoga cult and Cho could spend all his free time in bars for all she cares, as long as they do their job well and respect the law.

And because of that, _it's so easy_ to forget Jane lacks any kind of life outside work. As far as she knows, he has no friends outside the CBI or support system at all. As far as she knows, he spends most of his nights on the couch in the bullpen instead of going home, and she isn't even sure he has a permanent address in Sacramento. But what can she do about it? Is there anything she can do, anything at all?

 _Is there something I want to do?_

"Lisbon? Meet me with your team in the stairways in two minutes."

"Yes Boss, will do," she answers mechanically before hanging up.

 _Now is not the time to think about that._

"Jane?" she says, waiting until she catches his gaze to speak again. "Round the team and anyone else on the floor while I call the bomb squad please."

"Of course," he says, blinking slowly when she lets go of his arm.

He leaves right as the alarm starts ringing overhead and, as far as she can see, he's as efficient as he ever was – directing people toward the stairways, calm and collected. Game face on, without a hint of nervousness. As if that interlude in her office never happened.

 _Well. That's a good thing. Right?_

"Another bomb threat," says Minelli when they finally get out of the building. "That's the third this year."

"Not on my phone, it isn't."

"Well, granted, they don't usually come through CBI. But that's what the drills are for."

By the time they're outside, she's ready to convince herself that it's nothing – a hoax someone played either on the CBI or Jane himself, someone using his ego to yank their chains.

 _And it's working, too_ , she sighs to herself as she follows Jane to the parking lot, where he starts looking through the windows of parked cars. Her phone rings.

"Lisbon, I want you to bring back Jane here _right this instant!_ " splutters Minelli.

"Yes sir, I'll have him back in a minute," she says, rubbing her forehead.

A tension headache is building behind her eyes – one she forgets about as soon as she opens her eyes and catches a slight glimmer in the middle of her palm.

 _What the... Is it glowing?!_

Then she realises it isn't glowing at all – but heat is coming off the name, heat she's starting to feel painfully.

"Sorry sir, call you back," she cuts Minelli and hangs up. "Jane!"

"Lisbon! Found it!"

"Jane! _Back off that van!_ "

He's still looking through the glass panes, terror once again written all over his features, focussed on the man handcuffed inside instead of thinking of his own safety. And her hand is _hurting_ , leaving her mind in a panic over a situation she could probably handle better in other circumstances – but she _can't_ , they have to _move_ , _he_ has to _move_.

"Shoot it out! Shoot it out with your gun!" he yells, hitting the window with both his hands and – _what?_

"I – I can't, there's no time! Come on! Jane, come on, let's go!"

 _He isn't moving, why isn't he moving?!_

"Come on, run Jane! Jane, run! _I mean it, come on!_ "

Pulling his arm doesn't help, he shakes her off and hits the glass once more. And her fingers are starting to spasm in agony, there's only five seconds left on the countdown so she stops thinking, grabs his left hand and _squeezes_ – and when he startles and looks at her, eyes widened and mouth opened on a silent scream, she _pulls_ , and they _finally finally finally run to safety_.

Not quick enough.

The blast pushes them apart and she rolls on the ground, arms around her neck. She's been trained for this kind of situation – and she will have bruises all over her body very soon, but that doesn't matter right now. Because she gets back up just in time to see Jane falling on the ground bonelessly, and for a second she fears the worst.

Then he starts moving and she runs back to his side.

"I'm okay, I'm okay," he says as she helps him get up. "I'm fine."

She takes her phone out of her pocket, makes sure the fall didn't damage it and calls 911.

"I'm gonna get you – "

" _911, what's your emergency?_ "

"I need an ambulance now!" she says.

Her hand doesn't hurt anymore, she notices distractedly. Jane, on the other side, has his eyebrows scrunched in pain.

"No, no ambulance, I just got something in my eyes."

Then of course, it turns out he does need an ambulance after all.

"This is a PR disaster," mutters Minelli, gaze going from Jane to the burning van. "A bomb in the CBI parking lot. A civilian employee going blind. How did P.D. miss that van?"

"It's okay, Jane, they'll take care of you," she says as they convince him to lie on the stretcher. "Everything's going to turn fine."

"How can it be fine? _I can't see!_ "

They put gauze on his eyes – and if he keeps his head still while they bandage him, his hands are frantic, alternately wringing the fabric of his trousers and scrambling around, trying to find something to hold onto. When they haul up the stretcher in the ambulance, his face contorts in painful confusion.

"Lisbon? Lisbon, where are you?"

"I'm right here. They're going to bring you to the hospital, alright? I'll follow as closely as possible."

"You're not – ?"

"I can't follow inside," she says, frowning. "I'm not family. I'll see you at the hospital, okay?"

" _Of course_ you can follow inside, what are you talking about? You hold his Healthcare Power of Attorney," says Minelli, raising an eyebrow. "Actually, I would feel _much_ better if you went on with him."

She blinks.

" _What?_ "

"Are you coming in, ma'am?" says the ambulance worker, holding the door.

She blinks again. Minelli gives her a little push.

"Go on. Someone _did_ try to kill him – he needs protection. I'll arrange a security detail to meet you there."

"Yes, yes of course," she says, scrambling into motion. "I'm here," she adds soothingly as soon as she's seated beside him.

Jane stays silent but his hands latches on hers, holds on tight.

"Power of Attorney, huh?" she whispers after a while, the silence making her uncomfortable.

"Minelli made it mandatory when he hired me," he answers quietly. "Who else was I supposed to name? You were the best option at the time."

 _The only option_ , is what he doesn't say.

She hears it all the same.

"How did we survive that blast? We were right beside it," he mutters.

"I don't know. We ran just far enough, I guess?"

"We _ran?_ No, we were – " he says, flummoxed.

She frowns.

"I – I don't remember running," he adds, and she can see his forehead creasing over the pads on his eyes. "Just the explosion and – that man's _eyes_ – "

"It's okay," she whispers. "They'll sort it out at the hospital."

Fortunately, coming in ambulance means Jane doesn't have to wait before being ushered in for exams – she barely has time to call Cho before an orderly gives her notice that they are finished with the scans and tests. When she comes back inside, Jane is settled into a private room already and apparently insisted that she be examined by a doctor – something she agrees to only to _shut him up_ while they force him into bed.

"Heard that? I'm _fine_ ," she says, once the indignity is over – for both of them. "Bruises only, nothing broken."

He doesn't answer – his face is twisting under the bandages. She gets closer, frowning.

"Are you okay? Are you in pain?"

" _No_. But – I need to use the bathroom," he says, half-annoyed, half-embarrassed.

"Okay, let me call a nurse, it'll be just a second.

" _No!_ Just – just help me get up, and – "

" _Jane_ ," she groans. "At _minimum_ you have a serious concussion, you're not supposed to get up alone!"

It's no use, of course – he already swung his legs off the side of the bed, hands trying to get a hold of the fragile medical equipment near him.

"Stop that! That machine can't hold your weight. Just – stay still for a moment, will you?!"

She takes two steps forward, slides one arm under his hands, the other around his back.

"Come on," she says. " _Slowly_ , lean on me. I'll bring you to the bathroom, come on."

"No peeking at my backside," he says grumpily.

"I have no interest in your backside," she laughs. "One step at a time. That's it."

"How come you don't?" he asks when they get to the door, a hint of his usual smile on his lips.

"Don't what?"

"Have an interest in my backside? I've been told it's a nice one."

" _I'm sure_ ," she says dryly. "Okay, how do you want to do this? I'm not staying in the bathroom while you use it!"

"Just – bring me to the toilet, I'll be fine after that."

"Call me when you're done, okay? I'll be right by the door."

She has half a mind to call for a nurse while he's inside – but it's awfully silent in there, must be soundproof. What if he asks for help and she can't hear him? By the time she decides to take a step toward the bed to try and find the call button, there's a faint crash and a yowl of pain on the other side of the door.

" _Jane!_ Are you okay? I'm coming in!"

"No, _don't!_ I'm fine, I'm – "

She finds him sitting on the floor of course, hospital gown riding high on his thighs and head bandage askew, one hand against the wall, a white piece of paper stuck under his naked foot.

"I slipped," he says, obviously annoyed with himself.

"I _told you_ to call me when you were done," she answers, rolling her eyes. "Come on, let me help you up."

"I need to wash my hands."

"I'll bring you to the sink, just – stop _running_ , for God's sake!"

"I'm not running! There's no place to run in here!"

" _You know what I mean!_ "

By the time he's back in his bed, complaining of pain on his tail end, he's crabbier than ever and she's completely fed up with his attitude. Of course, that's when a cheerful little nurse comes in, pulling a Holter monitor behind her. _Joyce_ , says the tag on her uniform.

"Hello Mister Jane, how are you feeling today?"

"Just _peachy_ ," he mutters. "Nobody knows their job well enough to tell me _why I can't see_ , in the meantime I can't even go to the bathroom alone and my coccyx _hurts_. Best day _ever_."

"Please ignore him, he had a rough morning," she says with a sigh.

"Oh yes, he's the one who survived a bomb explosion, right? Poor lamb!" says the nurse. "You have all the reasons to be a little grumpy! At least you're still alive – a bomb, my God! It could've been so much worse!"

He groans something derogatory under his breath and she sends an ineffective glares his way. Smile a bit strained now, Joyce brings the monitor near him and pulls down the blanket covering him.

"What the heck are you doing?!" yells Jane, trying to fend off her hands.

"Please calm down, Mister Jane! I just need to fasten this monitor to your chest, it'll only take a minute."

" _What_ monitor?!"

"Very sorry, Mister Jane. It's a Holter monitor. You know, for your heartbeat?"

"Why do I need _that?_ There's a problem _with my eyes_ , not with my heart!"

" _Damnit Jane!_ Stop being so difficult, just let her do her job!"

By the time Cho finally joins them after the doctor's consultation, she's eager for a break – and as far as she can guess by the level of his surliness, Jane is more than ready for one too.

"You're gonna be fine," she says, trying to convince him as much as herself.

"Yeah, probably."

"We're gonna find who did this."

" _Good_."

She makes sure the nurses have her phone number in case of emergency before they leave, then absorbs herself as much as possible in the case to forget the worry she feels for her consultant. She can't remember the last time she didn't close a case – mind carefully skirting around the Red John issue – and she certainly has no intention of changing the tally with this one.

At no point does she spend time thinking about the pain she felt in her hand before the bomb exploded. If Jane forgot about that, it means she can allow herself the same, right?

Sleep still eludes her most of the night.

* * *

He hates it.

Hates hospitals, hates falsely cheerful nurses, hates patronising doctors who never answer his questions and talk down to him as if he was a pet.

Especially hates the helplessness and vulnerability of being _temporarily_ _unable to see_.

Trying to rely on his other senses isn't nearly as easy or efficient as advertised in fiction. The stink of ammonia and sour vitamins permeates everything, from the fabrics surrounding him to the very air, preventing him from gathering further information that way. Of course, he won't start _licking his visitors_ so taste was always out of the question, and touch is confined to the limits of his hospital bed for now.

Sounds, though – sounds are the _worst_.

Alternately too loud or not loud enough, unclear in their proximity and most of the time impossible to identify. He has no way to know if the shrill screams he heard earlier were a suffering patient or an electronic device malfunction, and he often confuses the soft tapping of feet on the hard floor with the gentle knock on the door from the nurses coming to check up in him.

He hates it all the same.

After less than a day of this – at least _he thinks_ it's been a day, there's no way to know really – he has more than enough. He wants out.

 _Needs_ out.

Fortunately, the doctor agrees.

"Clearly there's no point in keeping you here if you're intent on antagonising everybody, Mister Jane," she says in a sour voice. "So we'll release you in the care of a family member as soon as they can pick you up."

"I have no family," he answers bluntly. "And I'll release myself, _thank you very much_ – I'm blind, not brain dead. No need for a minder."

Her annoyed sigh prickles his ears.

"I _will_ be calling Agent Lisbon about this," she warns before leaving.

"No need, I'll tell her myself!" he calls after her, grinning sharply.

 _Freedom! Finally!_

The elation is lost by the time Officer Powell's car pulls into the parking lot. Overly confused and slightly nauseous by the ride, he stumbles his way past the check-up point then up the stairs, intent on proving himself he can get back to normal – regardless of the fact that _normal_ usually involves elevators.

"Can I help you to the bullpen, Mister Jane?" asks Powell, who faithfully followed him up the stairs without a word of protest – something for which he's very grateful.

"Please," he says, breathless. "If you still have the cane, I would take it now."

"Of course, no problem."

A swish and a click later, he finds himself with a thin cane sweeping the ground, one hand on the officer's shoulder – trying to the best of his abilities to appear as confident as he usually is.

The familiar sounds of the bullpen greet him like a warm blanket, if blankets were made of bricks and thrown to people's faces. Clicks and dings and swooshes and claps everywhere, and though he can guess what they are – _printers and elevator and turned pages and people passing by_ – the whole symphony is chaotic and confusing. He feels the beginning of a tension headache brewing over the remnants of his nausea.

"Hey! Aren't you supposed to be in the hospital?"

 _Chronic annoyance and repressed tension covered under soft voice tones – Grace._

"Nope!"

"Yes you are."

"No, they've had enough of me. Can't say I blame them," he says, somewhat sheepishly.

A waft of flowery perfume – _lilac soap_ – hits his nostrils as they engage in easy conversation and light banter. The pads over his eyes are starting to itch. A sudden clash of metal followed by eager footsteps alerts him to Lisbon's approach.

He grins. She really has a distinctive walk.

" _What the Hell?!_ "

"Oh, doctor's orders," he lies, game face on. "She said it was the best thing for me to do – get back to work."

"She did _not!_ She said you insulted the entire ward and were a complete pain in the ass!"

There also is a very distinctive musical range to her voice – it's almost distracting in how expressive it is. An impressive decrescendo of frustration and worry and a good helping of snark and just a small hint of... something... something odd.

 _Fear?_

That makes no sense. What would she be afraid of? A small tinge of frustration burns in the back of his mind – _if only he had his eyes_. If he could _just see her_ , he'd be able to read her _right away_. As it is, he can only try and listen carefully, smoke her out.

No such luck.

As he walks through the bullpen, hitting poles and desks and people's feet on his way, the frustration slowly turns to dread – he _knows_ the place, he shouldn't be running around like a headless chicken. _Why_ didn't he ever consider the possibility of loosing his sight? When he finally reaches his couch and sits, there's only one thing left on his mind.

 _If I can't read people, if I can't even find my way to the couch without tripping all over myself in the process, I'm useless to the team._

Never mind that he can't figure out Lisbon's secret – this is a whole new level of worrying. What if his sight never comes back? If his skills set isn't on par anymore, they'll be quick to cut him off. Perhaps Lisbon would allow him to stay around for a while if he appeals to her compassion, but as soon as Virgil learns about him loitering around doing nothing, it'll be _his job_ to boot him out.

And he'll never catch Red John.

 _I need to get back to work._

He takes a deep breath, stands up and walks purposefully toward where _he thinks_ are the interrogation rooms. Slowly, one foot in front of the other, counting the steps until the next landmark – Van Pelt's desk... Cho's... Rigsby's... the printer... Lisbon's office. Turn. First door on the left... continue... twenty-three steps, four, five, six...

 _There!_

An angry voice he doesn't know. He can't make out the words, of course – that he can even hear the voice at all is a surprise, but a very welcome one.

 _Tuning into my other senses may really work after all._

The door to the interrogation room is just a bit further ahead than he thought – banging into the wall then opening the door, he walks in, interrupting whatever was going on inside.

"Sorry! Don't mind me."

The suspect is agitated, as expected – but Rigsby's voice is a battlefield of disbelief and acceptance, which makes him smile. Good thing that in five years, they've had plenty of occasions to rehearse _un-blind_ versions of this.

"Yeah so, uh, did you kill James Medina?" he asks, focussing on the man he knows to be less than three feet before him.

As the suspect answers, he takes a deep breath, listening intently to the variations in his voice. And for the first time since childhood, he finds himself making synaesthetic associations – something he tried to avoid when he was about twelve and his father started taunting him about the crossed wired in his brain. But he can nearly _taste_ the man's anger on his tongue, a sweet and sour rightful thing with a hint of zest, and really – _why not?_

 _I'll take any help I can to make this work!_

Then the suspect snaps his fingers, and the abnormally loud sound bounces off the walls, irritating his ears.

"Can I hold your hand?" he asks, stretching his own on the table.

There's a beat of silence, then a rush of breath before the man touches the back of his fingers to his.

Soft hands, slightly sweaty palm with deep creases. Long artistic fingers. Strong but steady pulse, lean muscles – working out, but not overly so. Angry, but not murderous. Smooth jaw. All bark and no bite.

"Don't do that!"

"Nice to talk with you, Terry. Be well," he says. "You can let him go," he adds, nodding toward where he's pretty sure Rigsby is.

"Uh, that's uh, not your call," says his colleague, voice still full of disbelief.

"Well, I didn't say you _must_ let him go. I said that you can – _if you want_ – being that he's innocent."

The suspect – who's not a suspect anymore, at least not in his mind – thanks him. He's just about to get up when a loud crash startles him.

" _Jane!_ "

"Whoa! Oh, that was loud. That scared me."

" _Up!_ You're getting out of here _now_."

Small fingers circle his biceps, impatiently pulling. As he lets Lisbon guide him out of the interrogation room, a rush of triumph makes his head swim, and he loses balance until she stabilises him. They walk together back to the bullpen, sweeping his cane around with his right hand, warm, compact and _familiar_ shoulder under his left – and the wide grin on his face makes his cheeks hurt, but he doesn't care.

 _It's still working! I'm not useless!_

"How many times do I have to tell you to stop interrupting interviews like that?" she says, annoyed.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he says – and she probably can hear the sheer joy in his voice, but he's too relieved to care.

His cane suddenly hits a pole and he stops, turns his back to it and removes the sunglasses from his nose, taken in by a sudden thought.

"What are you doing?" asks Lisbon, taken aback by his sudden stop.

"How will I know if I can see or not if I have bandages on?" he says, pulling on the pads covering his eyes, flinching when the tape sticks to his skin. " _Ow_. Here goes..."

It's silly, he knows, but he can't stop feeling a pang of disappointment when he opens his eyes and – _nothing_. It was going so well. Too well, perhaps.

"Black as night," he answers when Lisbon prompts him.

"I'm sorry," she says after a pause.

"Never mind. Andrews didn't do it."

"Did you sense that with your _superpowers?_ " she asks, the teasing an obvious attempt to cheer him up.

And while he would usually clamp down on the rush of affection her caring often triggers these days, this time he lets himself be swept away.

"Yes, I did," he grins. "He's filled with anger, but uh, not the fearful, guilty, murderous anger – that has a tang of ammonia about it."

He's not alone anymore. He can do this.

"His is a more clean, righteous anger. Lemony."

" _Lemony_ ," she deadpans, repressed laughter dancing in her voice.

He _will_ do this.

 _And that starts by_...

"This blind thing really works! Without my vision, I can tune in my other senses much more clearly."

"That's _great_. Let me go make you a superhero costume. What do you wanna be called?"

... _reacquainting oneself with familiar landmarks_ , he thinks as his fingers climb up her shoulder, brush lightly against neck and hair, then dance around her nose and lips.

"What are you doing?" she asks, nonplussed – muscles smoothly gliding up and down under his hand.

"I wanna know what your face feels like when you're smiling," he grins.

And she does smile, cheeks raising and dimples creasing at the tip of his fingers – but then she gasps softly, tension hardening her features, hands suddenly gripping his wrist in a painful squeeze.

"Uhm so – what's the deal, boss?" asks Rigsby in uneasy tones.

She drops his wrist as if burned, trying to get her breathing under control – and once again he finds himself massively confused, unable to make sense of what's going on around him.

 _What just happened?_

"Have forensics check him for any explosive residue," she says, voice _nearly_ back to normal. "If he comes up clean, let him go."

"Will do."

Rigsby's footsteps retreat, leaving them once again facing each other – or at least he thinks so. He can still hear her ragged breathing somewhere close, so he's fairly sure of it.

 _I want to see her, damn it!_

"I'm still convinced there's a connection between Medina and me," he says lightly, in the hopes of preventing an escape he feels imminent. "So before you make me that superhero costume I'm looking forward to, could you take me to visit with his widow?"

"I'll go make an appointment," she says quietly, her footsteps retreating before he can say or do anything else about it.

The subdued lack of an answering, teasing banter in her voice confirms something is very, _very_ wrong. Not with Rigsby being witness to his quirks or catching them in a potentially compromising position – something _specific_ to him.

 _What did I do?!_

Frustration and annoyance with himself aren't helping him come up with an answer, so by the time Lisbon comes back to tell him they're leaving in five minutes, he puts the issue aside to examine later. She seems to have done the same, or at least as much as she's able to – there's still undeniable tension in her voice. But he knows her, knows she won't respond to prompting, and without visual cues he feels less than confident in being able to guess the answer out of her.

 _Crap. What if I never get my vision back? What then?_

* * *

 _A flash of light. Just a flash of light_ , she repeats to herself. _A glint of sunlight catching on his wedding ring._

Alright, his back was against the windows – perhaps a spark coming off the printer, then. She didn't actually see a name, after all. Just a flash of silver. It could have been anything.

She scrunches her eyes hard. Self-deception can only go so far, she knows. Why is it so hard to admit the truth to herself?

"Boss," calls Cho.

"Yes," she says, opening her eyes again. "Got anything?"

"The address of a building Kraeger has been seen around last week."

"Let's go check it out."

He nods curtly. The squatters' dwellings are close by, enough that she doesn't bother walking back to the car – it's only two blocks away, and a short trip in the fresh air should help clear her mind. Cho raises his eyebrows, but follows without comment.

A light sting in the middle of her palm stops her from pulling the door open.

"Something's wrong," she says out loud, cursing herself immediately when Cho turns to her in alarm.

"What is it?"

"I have no idea, just – a feeling," she answers, hissing in pain when her hand is hit by a second sting, one sharper than the first. " _God_ I'm starting to sound like Jane, sorry about that. Just – let me call the team, make sure everything's alright. Go ahead, I'll catch up."

Cho stares at her, eyes dropping briefly to her balled left hand, then nods and disappears into the building. She whips out her phone, signals Jane's number.

Straight to voice mail.

 _Crap! He must have closed it before settling in for a nap again._

She climbs the steps while waiting for Rigsby to answer, but fifteen rings later he still isn't picking up.

"Found Kraeger, Boss!" calls Cho from upstairs.

"Coming!" she yells back, signalling for Van Pelt as a last resort.

"Hi Boss! What's up?"

"Van Pelt! Is everything alright?" she asks immediately, eyeing Kraeger's wall with disbelief.

Cho is already interrogating the man.

"Yes, of course," answers Van Pelt, puzzled. "Why do you ask?"

"Where are Jane and Rigsby?"

"Rigsby I don't know, probably out getting food. Jane is on his couch just beside me. Is everything alright?"

"I don't know," she answers, frowning. "We found Paul Kraeger, Cho is talking with him right now. I guess we'll have answers very soon – "

"Hang on Boss, Jane wants to talk to you," Van Pelt interrupts her.

A new sharp sting makes her fingers twitch.

"Lisbon, you there?"

"Yes. Is everything alright?"

"You're bringing back _closed-case pizza_ , right? I forgot to ask for a side of onion rings," he says, voice so calm she blinks twice at the _non-sequitur_ before hearing the hidden plea for help.

 _We didn't close the case yet. Which means_ he _did. Which means the killer..._

" _God_ , Jane," she groans. " _Be careful_. We're coming right back."

"Great! Thank you, that'd be really – "

The clicks and beeps of an interrupted phone call nearly freezes her blood with dread.

"Cho! We have to go back _now!_ " she yells, running back to the stairwell.

She has no memory of the two-blocks run back to the SUV – all she knows is that Cho barely catches up with her as she pushes the key into the slot and _turns_ , nearly breaking it in her rush and panic.

"You'll have an accident. Let me drive," he says firmly, opening the door and pulling on her arm.

She opens her mouth to argue, but pain courses through her hand relentlessly now – at a lower level than the day before, but enough to break her concentration, enough to _hurt_. And they're losing time so she just gets out, runs to the other side while her colleague takes her place.

"Kraeger had a son," he informs her while they rush through the streets. "Goes by Dan Hollenbeck since his mother remarried. Found out about his father living on the streets about three months ago, fits the timeline. He's probably our guy."

She nods, still trying to catch her breath – lingering anxiety makes it harder than usual.

"When I called earlier, Jane used code words to ask for help," she says. "Hollenbeck must have found a way to get inside. Rigsby didn't answer his phone, and when I talked to her, Van Pelt seemed to have no idea something was wrong so I'm guessing he hadn't make his move yet. But _Jane_ – "

"He always knows," says Cho.

They drive quicker through the city, coming to a stop before the entrance to the parking lot.

" _Go!_ " she says, already running toward the loud screams and crunching noises in the distance.

The first thing she sees on the scene is a Jeep going berserk, crashing into other cars as if driven by a toddler. She can't catch sight of who's behind the wheel, but Van Pelt's panicked voice soon makes it obvious.

Then she notices the man aiming a gun at the passengers through the broken window and the pain in her palm intensifying.

 _I can't aim. I'm too far!_

She runs. The man's walk is confident, predatory. If she doesn't find a way to stop him _now_ , he'll kill them. Her hand is spasming in agony. There's no time to think. Barely time to react.

Raising her right hand, supporting her aim on the trunk of a nearby car, she shoots.

The man falls.

" _Oh_ ," says Van Pelt. "Oh, thank God. Oh, _thank God!_ "

She runs to them, pain abating in her palm, relief flooding her veins.

"What? What happened? Something good happened?" says Jane, still panicking.

"Didn't I say _no excitement of any kind?_ " she answers, voice shaky.

She can hear Jane's deep sigh of relief as he lets his forehead fall on the wheel – she would do the same, really, but _someone_ has to be responsible, take care of the aftermath. With trembling fingers, she opens the door to let Van Pelt out.

"Rigsby isn't answering his phone," she says. "Where did you see him last?"

"He was going to the bathroom," Van Pelt answers, eyes suddenly widening in panic. "Oh my God, he was with Dan!"

"Go check on him, I'll call an ambulance."

"I can't! I'm handcuffed."

"Did he take your keys?"

"No, they're still inside," says Van Pelt. "But I have loppers in the trunk, you could cut the chain?"

"Don't be silly, I have mine. Just turn around."

As soon as she's free, Van Pelt dashes off to the building's entrance and disappears inside. She takes a deep breath, goes back to the front and takes her phone out.

" _911, what's your emergency?_ "

"I need paramedics at 1102 Q Street, Sacramento," she says, crouching over Hollenbeck.

No pulse.

 _Crap._

"One man down with a gunshot wound to the chest, two involved in a car crash, possibly more. We may need an ambulance."

" _Someone call an ambulance, GSW here!_ " she hears Cho yelling from afar.

"One more gunshot wounded reported, we'll _definitely_ need that ambulance," she adds urgently to the operator.

She gets back up, circles the front of the Jeep and opens the driver's door. Jane still has his forehead against the wheel, but at least his heavy breathing confirms he's alive.

 _Thank God._

"Hey," she says, reaching for him. "Jane. You alright?"

"M'fine," comes the muffled answer – which doesn't mean anything really, considering who's talking.

"A pizza themed call for help? That was a new one," she teases.

"Yeah. Did you get me my onion rings?" he chuckles weakly, and she lets out a relieved sigh.

 _He'll be fine._

"Come on, let's get you back inside," she says, rubbing his back lightly.

He arches slightly into her hand before raising his head, pushing on the dashboard as if lacking the energy to get up by himself. Which may well be the case, now that she thinks about it.

"Here, let me help you," she says, sliding his arm over her shoulders to help support his weight. "Mind the head! There you go. Van Pelt will have to replace that Jeep, you know. I don't think that's going to make her very happy."

"Meh. She'll be too busy worrying about Rigsby to care."

"Well, I hope you pay her back instead of just using what happened tonight as an excuse to brush up on your blind driving skills."

"Brush up on my – why, that's a _great_ idea, Lisbon! Do you think Minelli would volunteer some of those dreadful SUVs for the test runs?"

Ambulances come screeching just as they start walking. Paramedics pick up Hollenbeck and Tommy, the latter thankfully still alive, and she directs two of them inside to check up on Rigsby and Van Pelt. True to form, Jane refuses to go back to the hospital.

"I just need rest," he says, stubborn but half draped all over her.

"You can _barely stand straight_. Let them examine you at least, just in case. _Please?_ "

"Oh, alright," he mutters.

Fortunately for him, between Tommy, Rigsby and Hollenbeck's corpse, there's no space left – he gets discharged with advices to rest, stay hydrated, and move as little as possible for the next few days.

"I should drive you back home. Your neck is going to kill you if you sleep on that old couch tonight," she says as she helps him inside.

"My neck is already killing me, and this couch is more comfortable than any bed. Don't worry Lisbon, I'll be fine," he answers with a tired smile.

There's nothing more she can say to change his mind – he's already half-asleep, snuggled up on the supple leather. Rueful, she shakes her head and walks back to her office, where Cho is waiting for her.

"Van Pelt and I are going to the hospital with Rigsby," he says.

"Alright. Hollenbeck's death doubles the number of incident reports I need to fill in, I'll be here for a while. Call me as soon as you have news, will you? And tell Van Pelt I'll need her forms completed tomorrow afternoon."

"Yes, Boss."

The quietness falling on the office rekindles her frayed nerves and, as soon as she finds herself alone in the building, she stops trying to fill reports. Her hands are shaking too badly.

 _That was – too close. Way too close._

And while she usually deals well with threats to her unit, accepts them as the normal risks involved in being cops, this time she knows she isn't coping as she should be. She panicked. Twice now.

 _I never panic._

It _could_ be because Jane is a civilian, and she feels it's her duty to protect him – that it's her job as a cop, as the better-trained person, and multiple threats to his life in such a short time span are bound to rattle her.

It _could_ be because she genuinely likes him and, if she's honest with herself, she likes the way he never seems to care about authority and power – even if that gets them both in trouble every single week. She's slowly learning to consider him a friend – a strange kind of friend, one she doesn't trust one bit, but a friend nonetheless.

It _could_ be because he's a member of her team, a member of her found family. Someone she cares for, someone she feels responsible for, someone she wants to keep alive against all odds, no matter what.

And all of those are good, sensible, _accurate_ reasons to explain away her quivering fingers, the slow shattering she feels inside.

But they are not the truth.

The truth is, the truth is, _Jane_ –

 _Jane is my soulmate._

She closes her eyes.

She doesn't understand why God saw fit to inflict her with an emotionally unavailable, unstable human being who lies and cheats and plays games without a care for what is right or wrong, without a care for whom he hurts on his way to get what he wants. She doesn't understand, but there's only a certain amount of denial she can allow herself before facing hard truths heads on, and this isn't the time for fighting against it anymore.

Jane _is_ her soulmate and it's not going to change, even if she prayed everyday.

And for all that she feels stuck inside facing this alone, she isn't even sure she _wants_ it to change anyway. Because while very aware of his faults, she can see past them – she doesn't trust _him_ , fine, but she trusts that he's a decent man under all the lies and defence mechanisms. And she _does_ admire his brilliance, enjoy his wile.

She likes him, and tonight she killed to save him.

It won't be the last time, she knows – it wasn't even the first time. He's much too reckless with his own life, and that's the other part of her problem, isn't it?

 _How do you save someone who doesn't want to be saved?_

* * *

Sleep eludes him, once again.

It isn't a lack of tiredness – the emotional roller coaster of the last two days saw to that. His neck and back hurt, and maybe that's part of the problem – his muscles are so hard and knotted he can't find a comfortable position. The cold and soft leather under his cheek makes him shiver, and for the first time in over five years, he wouldn't begrudge himself some small earthly comforts. Like a pillow, for instance. A pillow would be nice.

But over everything else, his mind won't shut up.

That's the real problem, right there – his mind just won't shut up and let him sleep. And while Red John is his usual subject of nocturnal rumination, this time his thoughts are flitting around instead, bouncing from one subject to another without means to prevent or direct them, and exhausting him over the point of sleep.

 _Blind blind blind what if I can't get my vision back – Lisbon's smile is as pretty to touch as to see – is Rigsby going to be okay – what if they throw me out – what if I can't catch Red John – why did Lisbon react that way when I touched her face – Carol Gentry NO don't think about that – why was Lisbon afraid earlier – short-term memory loss they said did I forget something important – did I forget something about my girls – how will I find Red John if I'm blind blind blind –_

After more than an hour of tossing and turning and trying to calm down – at least _he thinks_ it's been an hour – he has enough. The pads over his eyes are itching something fierce and his throat is parched. With a soft groan, he gets himself back into a sitting position, finds his cane after a few seconds of fumbling around, and stands up. Against all odds, being upright is less painful than his previous lying position.

Walking, on the other side, is as slow and difficult a process as expected.

"Jane, what are you doing?"

He startles, drops his cane.

" _Oh!_ Lisbon, you scared me. What are you still doing here?"

"What do you _think_ I'm doing here?" she gripes. "I'm not done with the paperwork. Better question yet, _what are you doing up?_ Didn't the paramedics tell you to stay put?"

"They also told me to stay hydrated, and I wanted tea."

She sighs noisily – a rush of breath tickles past his cheek. There's a small click he can't identify, but then she presses his cane back into his palm. She must have picked it up.

"Just – go back to your couch, I'll get you some."

"Sitting hurts. I'd really rather stay on my feet," he says, stretching his left hand in her direction – trying to reach her shoulder, hitting the side of her head instead.

"Ouch!"

"Sorry, sorry... To the kitchen, then? Please?"

"Fine. Come on."

Fine hair are brushing his knuckles, and he didn't realise just how cold he was before he feels the warmth of her skin under his fingertips. Tea will be welcome, in more ways than one.

"Is chamomile okay for you?" she asks. "There isn't any caffeine in it, it should allow you to sleep better."

"Caffeine isn't very effective on me," he says, keeping his hand on her shoulder. "And normal tea is more – comforting. Earl Grey, please?"

The way her muscles move as she reaches up to pick a cup and teabag is fascinating – Lisbon is warm and familiar and _real_ under his hands, and focusing on her suddenly seems the perfect way to _shut his mind up_. His fingers follow the length of her arm, taking in creases and seams of fabric, light shivers and rolling muscles under bare skin, until they rest on her wrist.

"What are you _doing?_ " she asks, suddenly very still.

He frowns before realising how deeply entrenched in her personal space he is, their bodies a breath apart, his arms encircling her and her hair tickling his nose. Another woman perhaps would have relaxed in his embrace – he can't remember a woman in his past who _didn't_ , to be honest – but Lisbon? No, Lisbon merely stiffens and waits to be released, and that – that's _interesting_.

"Showing you how to make a good cup of tea," he answers on a whim, applying careful pressure on her wrist.

Explaining to her how he got distracted by his sense of touch really isn't an option.

"You could do that with words, you know," she answers, trying for annoyance but coming off wryly amused instead.

"I tried that earlier with Rigsby, with obvious results," he grins. "Let me?"

She shuffles a bit, but the way she relaxes minutely lets him know she'll let him do as he wishes – and that too is interesting, how she lets him get away with so many intimate gestures without a word of protest. Granted, he slowly roped her into it along the years, but _still_.

"The water is nearly boiling," she says. "Go on."

"Uhm, yes. First, the milk – not too much, I'm lactose intolerant. Just a drop. Count half a second."

"I can't count _half_ a second!"

"Of course you can – pour the milk down and back up before you get to 'one'. Thaaaat's it... see? You can!"

"Don't patronise me," she growls.

He chuckles.

"Now put the teabag in the milk... don't drop the thread."

" _Jane_. I'm not stupid."

"I never said you were," he grins. "Now wait until the water truly boils, shouldn't be long now. There, hear that? Bubbles!"

" _Bubbles_ ," she repeats. "You're like a kid, I swear. Now what?"

"Now you pour water until it reaches half an inch under the rim, and..."

As soon as the water stops trickling, he gently enfolds her wrist, pulling it up, then down, then up again four times to dunk the teabag in the mix of water and milk, until he deems it enough and directs her hand toward the sink.

" _Et voilà_ ," he says, smiling, breathing in the wafts of bergamot tea, light almond pastry and –

 _Cinnamon?_

"Are you _sniffing_ me?! _Jane!_ That's enough now, _move_."

" _Ouch!_ Stop that, woman!"

He chuckles lightly, trying to avoid the sharp elbows pushing him away.

"Come on, let's get you out of my hair and back to your couch," she says, her voice laced with a strange mix of annoyance, embarrassment and – just a hint of something _else_ he isn't sure he identifies well.

 _Arousal?! That can't be right._

Cursing his blindness once again, he feels the air before him, trying to find her in the empty space. There's a clicking sound of porcelain on his left, and he assumes it means she picked up his teacup. Then she meets his searching hand with one of hers, gently but firmly placing it on her shoulder, and he finds himself momentarily taken aback by the sheer _heat_ he feels through the fabric of her shirt.

"Uhm, actually – would you mind taking me to the one in your office?" he asks, as they walk slowly back to the bullpen.

" _My_ couch? You're always complaining about how uncomfortable it is!"

The pulse fluttering under his fingertips skips a beat. He frowns.

"It _is_ , but it's also – plushier. The leather on mine is cold."

"What you need is a _blanket_ , not a _plushy couch_ ," she says. "You need to sleep in a bed, Jane. Are you sure you don't want me to drive you back home?"

"No," he answers, voice low. "I can't sleep in that hotel room. Couch please?"

"Don't say I didn't warn you tomorrow when you wake up with a crick in your neck."

He grins, hums a little, and she sighs impatiently but helps him settle in her office nonetheless, just like he knew she would. Then she rummages around in her storage cupboards, filling the room with clicks and claps and muttering – he isn't quite sure what she's doing until she comes back near him and touches smooth fabric to his hand.

"Here," she says, and he would blink if his eyes weren't stuck under itchy cotton pads.

"Is that a pillow? Oooh, and a blanket! Really?"

"Should do the trick, yeah?"

" _Yes!_ Thank you, Lisbon," he says, burying his nose in the cushion and kicking off his shoes to wrap himself in the comforter. "How come you have those in your office?"

"Meh, you know. Habit from my SFPD days," she says, giving him back the cup of tea.

"Didn't peg you for the kind of girl to sleep on the job," he says, teasing.

"I kept them _for a friend_ ," she answers, and he can _just_ imagine how she's rolling her eyes at him.

They stay silent for a while – him sipping tea, trying his best to stop thinking, she scratching her pen on paper forms, working relentlessly, until suddenly he realises he doesn't hear her writing anymore.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, it's fine," she answers distractedly.

Then she swallows, puts down her pen, takes a deep breath – and he knows he doesn't want to have this conversation with her, whatever it is about. Every warning sign she gives off screams _this is serious_ , and he really isn't in the mood for life-changing discussions.

"Jane, I – you know, maybe we should talk about – "

And that's the moment her phone starts ringing, making them both jump guiltily, like kids caught baking mud cakes in their grandmother's oven. Her pen clatter on the ground and she curses softly.

"Crap, hang on – _Lisbon_. Oh, Cho! How's Rigsby? Just a concussion? That's great. Tell him I don't want to see him before Monday morning. No, _really_ – if he tries to pull a Jane and come in tomorrow, I'll kick his ass. Yeah, you tell him that."

He smiles, puts his empty cup and sunglasses on the floor near one end of the couch, and lets his head fall on the cushion-turned-pillow, squashing the impulse that makes him want to hide under the blanket. A deep breath brings more of that delicious almond pastry smell to his nose, and his smile widens before he can think of stopping.

"Uh-huh. Yeah. What? No, don't bother – just come back in the morning. Of course I'm sure! Don't be ridiculous."

She hangs up after a few more seconds of conversation, and he knows if he wants to derail her before she starts again, he must speak _now_.

"This pillow smells like you," he says in sleepy tones – ones he's shocked to realise aren't nearly as fake as he thought they would be.

"Like _me?_ "

She appears taken aback, which of course is exactly what he wanted.

"Yes – and incidentally, you're smelling – " he yawns " – particularly good today. Is that cinnamon in the mix somewhere?"

"Good _night_ , Jane," she says, her voice a perfect blend of wry amusement and disbelief.

 _Just like Icarus_ , he thinks, half-asleep now. Striving to be free of Red John with everything he is, but Lisbon's sun has always been burning so _brightly_.

One day, one day he'll have to stop and think hard on the reasons why he keeps around her, even when he knows the best thing to do would be to run away as far, as quick as possible. There's a masochistic strike in there somewhere he'll have to own to and consider the consequences of, before the unavoidable meltdown.

But not now.

For now, and as long as he can, he'll enjoy the warmth, the light, the _life_ she radiates around her, even if he needs to distract her from times to times to avoid soulful conversations he doesn't want to get into.

Cold will take over soon enough, anyway.

* * *

Morning finds her still hunched over paperwork, rubbing tired eyes every fifteen minutes and wishing for coffee. She did think about calling it a night and going back home once or twice, but the sight of Jane's sleeping form always prevented any retreat. Something about the vulnerable slant of his mouth and his balled fists keeps reminding her that he's _hurt_ , he's _blind_ – and he _did_ crash Van Pelt's car, even if he managed to avoid further apparent injuries. He could need assistance.

Of course, come seven o'clock she's fully ready to give up, or at least let _someone else_ take care of him.

When she drops her pen on the floor for the third time in a row, she lets her head fall on her arms. Perhaps she can take a nap, catch a few minutes or even half an hour of sleep before the team comes in, before they get a new case. But her mind isn't on board with that plan, and soon she finds herself rehashing specific events of the last two days.

Jane unwilling to run even as both their hands are burning, even as she begs and screams in agony.

The silver flash in his palm as he reaches out to touch her face.

The pain in her hand, once again, as she empties her gun on Hollenbeck to save his life.

The heat of his body pressed against her back, the tickle of his breath on her neck, the warmth of his fingers on her wrist as he uses suggestive gestures to make tea.

 _Make tea my ass! What the hell was he playing at?!_

He's never been cruel before – playfully teasing and flirting, sure, unwilling to respect her boundaries and encroaching in her personal space, always. But never before did he deliberately use _seduction_ in his little games – and that's the very reason she allows him more liberties than she would from anyone else.

Jane is _safe_.

There's never been any ambiguity between them because he never shown any hint of lust or desire toward her – toward anyone really, something she always chalked up to grieving. And she was always more comfortable around boys, so what's not to like about that kind of platonic friendship?

No awkward factor. Perfect.

Which is why yesterday's incident confuses her so much. Teasing her that way, when they both know he isn't interested in following on it, is just – _cold_. Utterly unlike him. And her own response perhaps baffles her the most.

 _I'm not even attracted to him, for God's sake!_

And just as Jane starts stirring under the blanket she never lost the habit of keeping for Sam, she realises there's only one possible conclusion.

She's compromised.

He didn't change – _she_ did. She let herself be affected by the knowledge, irreversible proof of what they are to each other. Working with Jane was hard enough already – working with _her soulmate_ won't be possible at all.

Especially if he keeps messing with her that way.

She'll have to go to Minelli, ask him to do something so that they won't have to see each other on the job anymore. Either give Jane to a new team leader, or – or perhaps give _her_ another team.

It also means she'll have to give up the Red John case. Perhaps it's for the best. Five years they've been working that case, and nothing to show for it.

She does her best to ignore the sickening feeling in her stomach caused by the mere idea of giving up.

"Lisbon, you still here?" Jane asks, voice scratchy.

"I'm here," she says, face still in her arms.

"What time is it?"

She raises her head with a light groan, checks up her watch.

"Half past seven," she answers, watching him stretch and scratch his head with both hands. "Watch out, there's a teacup near your foot."

"Oh. Thank you."

He yawns, now scratching around his bandages.

"Don't touch that," she says, tired.

"Come on, it's a new day. I want to _see!_ "

She lets her head fall back on her arms, unwilling to engage in banter after a sleepless night.

"Lisbon?" he asks, unsure.

When she looks up again, she's surprised to notice his bandages are still on.

"Are you seriously waiting for my permission?" she says, voice laced with disbelief. "Do what you want, Jane, I'm not your mother."

"Thank goodness for that," he grins.

He's already pulling on his eye pads. Cheek in one hand, elbow on her desk, she waits. If anything, his closed eyes in awaken features make him look even more vulnerable than when he was sleeping with bandages on, and she curses herself and her _motherly_ instincts.

Then he opens his eyes, blinks a few time – and when he focuses on her and smiles, she can't help but smile back.

"Hey," she says.

"Oh, you have no notion of how good it is to see you," he answers, getting up. "Even if you look like death warmed over."

She flicks a pen at him when he breaks into a teasing smile.

" _Very_ funny," she says, rolling her eyes.

She isn't in the mood for his games – not after yesterday evening, not with him, and especially not _now_. And as usual he doesn't listen, or perhaps doesn't care.

"Come on," he says, suddenly by her side and pulling on her arm. "When was the last time you slept? Let me get you a coffee and something to eat. My treat."

She bites her lip – _the offer is so tempting_ – but shakes her head and stands up, mindful of her decision. If they are _fated_ to feel attraction to each other, better put some distance between them as soon as she can – which means _now_.

"No thanks. I was planning on taking a shower downstairs before work, breakfast can wait," she says. "You could use a change of clothes yourself," she adds, pointing to the many wrinkles in the fabric of his suit."

He shrugs, a boyish grin on his lips.

"Breakfast first, shower later. I'll bring you back something," he says before leaving.

Warm water falling on her head usually works wonders to dispel tiredness and clear her mind – this time, however, the name flashing silver in her hand keeps distracting her. Who would be willing to work with Jane? Who could even handle him on a daily basis? She barely can. _Her team_ barely can.

 _Damn it, why did he turned out to be my soulmate?! It complicates everything!_

"Hi Boss," says Cho when she comes back upstairs, hair curling and skin still damp from the shower's steam.

"Hey Cho. Any news of Rigsby?"

"The hospital is releasing him later today," he answers, looking up from the forms he's filling.

And meeting his stoic stare, she finally gets the answer she was seeking.

"Good. I – uh, I'd like you to meet me in my office. There's something I need to discuss with you."

She has to do it _now_ , before she baulks. And perhaps, _a little_ , before Jane comes back from his breakfast run – before he gets the chance to change her mind with his easygoing, charming ways.

"What's up, Boss?"

"Take a seat," she says, straightening her piles of paperwork.

He does so without a word. She puts both hands flat on her desk and looks at him, trying to gather some small amount of courage to make this real.

"How would you like to lead your own team?" she finally asks.

He stares at her a full three seconds impassively, probably trying to guess if she's joking or not. When he realises she isn't, he gets up, closes the door and comes sit back.

"You're doing this because your hand was hurting yesterday," he says plainly. "And because Jane is your soulmate."

She swallows. _Of course_ Cho would have guessed. But this is great, really. It means she's doing the right thing.

"Yes," she answers. "I'm compromised. But _you_ are a great agent, and if you are willing, I would like you to lead a new unit. Jane would be part of it, and you'd get the Red John case – I'll arrange everything with Minelli, of course."

He stares some more, then crosses his arms and leans back in his chair.

"Permission to speak plainly," he asks.

"Sure, go on."

"Are you in a relationship with Jane?"

"Absolutely not!" she says, a small pit of dread opening up in her stomach.

"Didn't think so. Are you in love with him?"

" _No!_ "

"Then how are you compromised?" he asks, small smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

She opens her mouth, then closes it, powerless to think of anything except the obvious.

"He's my soulmate," she says – small shock waves running through her mind and body as she admits it out loud for the first time. "It's against CBI regulation to work together with someone you're involved with and – "

"He's your soulmate, not your lover," interrupts Cho. "You aren't in a relationship and neither of you are mooning over each other like Rigsby and Van Pelt. You aren't doing anything wrong. And Jane gets in trouble all the time – the stings in your hand would be way more useful if he was part of _your_ team."

Completely flabbergasted, she finds herself unable to come up with counter-arguments.

 _Because he's right_ , says a small voice in her head. _He's completely right, you know it, and you're overreacting like a teenager with a silly crush on a teacher._

"Look Boss," he says. "Society and culture in America focus on soulmates being something romantic, but it doesn't have to be like that. I studied that, it's like a trend someone started hundreds of years ago – most of the western countries do the same now, but the words they use to talk about soulmates give hints that it wasn't always like that. Take Russia, for example – their definition translates better to 'kindred spirits' than our definition of 'soulmates'. And in France, they call it 'sibling souls'. It's kind of creepy when your language tells you you're supposed to fall in love with your sister."

He smiles, dimples creasing in his cheeks. She chuckles – feeling just a little better suddenly.

"In Korean, the words we use mean 'other self' in English'," he adds. "And in most Asian countries, it's completely forbidden to engage in a romantic relationship with your soulmate. It's even worse than incest, because they believe soulmates are two halves of the same soul – it would be like marrying and having children with yourself. Some places even go as far as considering children of two soulmates being brothers and sisters, so _they_ can't marry either even if they aren't related by blood."

"It must have been a shock for your parents when they saw how America treated the whole soulmate business."

"Yeah, it was. My point is, this?" he says, raising his left palm. "It doesn't have to mean anything. So – if you really don't want to work with me or Jane anymore, that's fine. But if it's just because of the soulmate thing, I like working with you and I'm in no hurry to be team leader."

"Sheepdip," she grins.

"Not if it means I become Jane's boss," he grins back. "We good?"

"Yeah," she says, rubbing her bleary eyes. "Thank you."

"No problem."

She calls back, just before he opens the door.

"Please, uhm, don't tell anyone about this?"

"Of course not."

"Not even Jane," she adds, biting the inside of her cheek.

"I won't."

"I'll come back to you about this tomorrow," she adds.

He displays just a hint of hesitation before leaving, but then nods and walks back to his desk in the bullpen, greeting Van Pelt on his way.

And now that she has time to think about it –

 _Crap. He's right._

– she remembers her mother holding a similar speech years and years ago, when she was barely seven and learning to read. Granted, she probably only told her she may not want to marry her soulmate in a misguided attempt to prevent her from being attracted to women –

 _Not that her little speech would have changed anything in the end._

– but the message holds true, and shakes her to the core.

 _It doesn't have to be complicated._

"Hey Lisbon."

And of course, there he is, all sunny grin and warm eyes – right in time to test her new-found resolutions.

"Hey Jane," she answers, smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

 _Alright. He's charming, I can give him that. But –_

"You look better," he says, putting a cup of coffee on her desk.

"I _feel_ better," she admits. "How was the trip outside?"

"Uh, it was good! Great to see again. A little lonely perhaps," he teases.

– _it doesn't mean I have to want him. Because I don't. And that's –_

"Next time I'll come with you. If you've been a good boy," she teases right back.

"Really?" he says, raising his eyebrows and grinning like a loon. "I'd better get on to it then."

She rolls her eyes as he saunters away to wreck havoc somewhere else.

– _that's the truth, actually. I don't want him. Wow. That's a relief._

No more touching, though. Touching isn't something she can allow herself, not with him. Well, perhaps in emergencies, she amends – but him not respecting her boundaries doesn't mean _she_ has to grow lax with them too. And she's sorry because she realises _he_ may need it, but if she wants to keep her sanity, avoid any more situations like yesterday...

 _No. More. Touching._

She takes a sip of coffee, eyes following him as he flits around the bullpen, going from Cho to Van Pelt to his couch and back up again like an odd golden-haired butterfly.

Then she smiles.

 _'Sibling souls' in France._

That's alright. She can do siblings. She has three brothers already – what is one more? And Jane _is_ like a child most of the time, something she enjoys about as much as she resents when they're working on a case. None of her brothers were ever quite like him, but that doesn't matter, does it?

 _'Other self' in Korea._

She refrains from laughing out loud. That one could become very awkward, very quickly. However, their respective talents, their respective personalities _are_ complementary – and maybe that's how it works. Pieces of a puzzle made to be embed at the seam instead of perfect replicas of one another.

 _'Kindred spirits' in Russia._

This one – this one she likes. Because they've always been so different from one another, but she hasn't yet found someone who challenges her like Jane does. Who makes her strive to be _better_ , even if just to pull him up with her. They are wired so differently it's a miracle they get along at all, but they always pull through and meet each other somehow, as if coming from different angles to get to the same midpoint – though she will admit to bending toward him more than she probably should.

More importantly – if she has to be honest with herself, Jane more than anyone in her team feels like _home_.

And perhaps that's all it needs to be.

* * *

 **Kindred will be going into a short hiatus for the next three months.**

First, if I'm not mistaken, in our world the 'romantic soulmates' definition comes from China, which has numerous detailed legends and traditions about it. It's very interesting and you should check it out.

In this story however, as Cho explained, while Asian countries _still have a long tradition of romantic soulmates_ , the name in people's palms means something very different.

See you early May!


	5. Part 4

_**Disclaimer:**_ _ **As you probably guessed by now, this show and its characters aren't mine.**_

 **A/N:** Gosh I missed you people!  
I know, I was planning to work on another project for March, but then life got in the way of my writing, and _then_ I had unending trouble with the basic structure of this story, making it all kinds of pain to write. Sorry about that. Thought if any of you wants to have fun, you may try and find traces of the March Challenge prompts in this chapter and the next.

On another note, many thanks again to **FiascoWay** , to whom belongs the modified 'Romeo and Juliet' quote. Hope you all enjoy this chapter!

 **Warnings:** Heavy talk of religion and Catholic Faith, Jane's depression and suicidal recklessness, and alcohol abuse. If this triggers you in any way, please stay safe.

 **Spoilers:** Some dialogues are taken directly from 1.17 "Carnelian Inc.", 1.19 "A Dozen Red Roses" and 1.21 "Miss Red". Allusions to events from 1.18 "Russet Potatoes", and information given in 3.23-24 "Strawberry and Cream", 4.23 "Red Rover, Red Rover", 5.13 "The Red Barn" and 5.22 "Red John's Rules".

* * *

 **Kindred**  
 **Part 4**

 _Something happened._

Eyes on the road, smooth jazz in his ears, he yawns – trying to keep alert. It's late, and they've been on the road for a while today. Lisbon's slow, deep breathing isn't helping, and he barely has enough concentration to ponder his latest conundrum.

Something happened, and _he just can't figure it out_.

He's been stumped in investigations before. Never for long – noticing patterns and the odd element out is his speciality, and connecting the dots comes easily after so many years of practice. And of course, when all else fails, poking the most likely suspect usually works out well for him. Granted, there's been a few close calls along the way – but he's still alive, the team is safe, all the bad guys are in prison. No need for concern, right?

Right.

Except he can't poke Lisbon the same way he pokes criminals.

First, because she's a friend – specifically, she's a friend _who carries a gun_. And while he's 98% sure she wouldn't shoot him in the foot, even at his most annoying self, he's only 7% certain she wouldn't punch him in the nose if he pries too much. Unlike Cho and Rigsby, she didn't join the forces to find an outlet for her anger or justify her own brutal streak – but she _was_ raised with three brothers and never shied away from using violence when prescribed.

He quite likes his body integrity.

Second, because as she was very eager to inform him earlier, _she doesn't trust him_ – and he assumes it means no level of his usual poking would be enough to pry that clam open.

It stings a bit.

More than a bit, actually – as if he was suddenly found _wanting_ on the most basic level. A position that unpleasantly reminds him of elementary school in Carson Springs, where no amount of cleverness was ever enough to wash away the stench of poverty, of being processed in the system.

Of his Carney roots, still so deeply ingrained.

That may well be where the problem lay, he knows. Trust, to a _townie_ , doesn't hold the same meaning as to those living on the circuit. What she called lack of trust earlier, he calls natural wariness – because who never lies, really? Believing everything coming out of people's mouth, even honest people like Lisbon, is the best way to be lulled into a sense of false security. The first step in becoming a mark. And he's self-aware enough to know he plays and tricks her a lot more often than he should, because she's so easy. So fun. So reactive. But _that_ has nothing to do with trust.

Trust is deeper.

Trust is having each other's back when there's a storm of trouble thundering about. It's saving each other's life and sanity, looking after each other for both the large and small things. It's knowing that, whatever happens, they will be there to keep you afloat – sometimes even against your will.

In that respect, he trusts her absolutely. And it hurts that she doesn't believe him capable of that same level of loyalty – even if he acknowledges that they may not be speaking the same language on that point, and that she must trust him on _some_ level if she persists in keeping him around.

Third, and last – because he's afraid.

" _That was a classic rendition of 'Paris Night', now it's back to Jazz on KRRF..._ "

He glances her way – she's half asleep already, features relaxed, face turned toward him.

"Talk to me," he says.

She startles awake, groans a little. Doesn't open her eyes.

"Do I have to?"

"No. I can just fall asleep, and we can drift into oncoming traffic. Your call."

She takes a deep breath, forces herself to wake up. She doesn't seem annoyed, more – _resigned_ , and he doesn't know what to make of it.

Doesn't know what to make of _her_.

He never realised just how lightly she used to thread around him – that is, until she stopped a few weeks ago. She used to blush and avoid his gaze whenever he teased her, a delightful response that was part confusion, part curiosity, with a sprinkle of interest on top. A very feminine reaction he enjoyed tremendously, in large part due to the fact that it departed so strongly from the authoritarian cop persona she maintains on the job. That reaction, he felt, was purely _Teresa_ – a speckle of insight into the woman outside work.

Now when he flirts with her, she teases him right back.

As if she wasn't affected anymore. As if she found a new ease in their relationship perhaps, opening up in some areas and at the same time, building new walls in others. She's less overtly defensive, which allows for a new _understanding_ that hadn't been possible between them before – but the very fact that she isn't unsettled by his quips anymore makes her harder to read. Harder to predict.

 _Harder to understand._

He's aware of the irony.

"Have you seen any good movie lately?" she asks, trying to sound chipper.

"No," he answers after a beat, frowning lightly. "You?"

She actually has to think about it before shaking her head. He smiles.

"Interesting."

She snorts.

"I don't know what's interesting about _that_."

"Oh. Well, you're a homicide detective. I would have thought television to be the perfect way to relax on a day off."

"When do I ever get days off?" she mutters, her slow blinks alerting him to the fact she's falling asleep again.

"Point taken," he yawns. "Does that mean you didn't see that popular one – you know, the vampire movie that came out last November?"

" _What_ vampire – do you mean 'Twilight'?! _No!_ Why would I ever want to see _that?_ "

He grins. _That_ certainly woke her up.

"You said you spent Thanksgiving with your family in Chicago, and you have a niece around the right age, so I figured you might have seen it with her. Unless you lied, and really spent the holidays on your couch, eating ice cream?"

"I didn't _lie_ ," she answers, averting her eyes. "Besides, Annabeth is more interested in video games than romance movies. She's even better than me at one person shooter."

"I bet _she_ takes days off. That gives her a lot more time to practice her video game skills."

" _I'm the one who carries a gun!_ "

Her huff of real indignation is hilarious.

"The fearful Senior Agent Lisbon, beaten at video games by a little kid."

"Shut up," she laughs.

"So, no vampire movie for you. Why not?"

"Are you kidding me? 'A teenage girl born with a scar in her hand discovers her soulmate is in fact alive and a vampire.' _Please_. I'm not fourteen anymore."

"A little fantasy would do you good, Lisbon," he says, smiling.

"That supernatural stuff is a waste of time anyway," she answers, rolling her eyes.

"Oh, don't act so jaded, it doesn't suit you at all. Learn to embrace your closet romantic side! You know you want to," he teases.

" _What_ romantic side? I don't _have_ a romantic side! I hate all of that – _mushy stuff_."

"No you don't," he grins. "And I can prove it to you."

"Oh yeah? How so?"

"Romeo and Juliet," he answers, glancing her way. "Soulmates or not?"

She opens her mouth, closes it. Frowns.

Changes in relationships happen all the time, he knows. What troubles him, and frightens him somewhat, is that he can't pinpoint the reason behind this one.

He isn't _stupid_ – he had time to think, replay and analyse every bit of memory, every event that occurred between _then_ and _now_. He finally figured out that she must have seen his left palm when he was feeling her smile – her initial reaction, taking hold of his wrist and gasping, is coherent with what he would expect from his soulmate seeing her name on his hand for the first time.

It's her current behaviour that doesn't add up.

And therein lies his problem, because as much as he wants to know the reasons behind her change in attitude, as much as curiosity is slowly eating him alive – he _doesn't want_ to deal with that whole soulmates mess, and what it could mean to the two of them.

It's too big.

It's too big, and he's never been one for direct confrontation. Scheming and playing tricks, that's what he's good at, that's everything he knows. And if it makes him a coward by _townie_ standards, then so be it.

He never cared about their opinion anyway.

"Obviously they were," she says after a few seconds, still frowning. "What's it have to do with anything?"

"Ah, but there's nothing obvious about it," he says, pleased. "It's never specified in the play."

"Of course it is! They both have each other's name in their palm, it's _literally spelled out!_ "

"Yes, yes. 'Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thy name written on my palm' and all that. But they never actually show it to each other, do they? They just assume. Plus, the death scene has no mention of burning or scarring."

"It _does_ in the movie," she says.

"Which one?" he laughs.

She rolls her eyes again.

And he might be a coward, but Lisbon –

 _–_ Lisbon _isn't._

She should have confronted him about it. Perhaps tried to run away, ship him off to another unit if she was rattled enough. And while he's satisfied with the status quo – is _comfortable_ with the status quo – he _knows_ her. This isn't an issue she would be able to keeping silent about. Not for long, anyway. Two days _tops_ before she brings it up.

Except it's been two _weeks_ now.

 _So why didn't she?_

"How does that prove anything, anyway?!"

"It proves you enjoy the idea of true love," he says with a teasing smile. "See, you _want_ them to be soulmates, because that way you can think 'hey, their story ended in tragedy, but at least they had something to back up their whole star-crossed lovers _thing_ '."

"So what if I do? You have to admit, _both_ of them having each other's name in their hand but _not_ being soulmates is kind of a stretch!"

"Meh," he shrugs. "Our names aren't that unique – how many Teresa Lisbon are there in the world? How many are _here_ , in California? If Romeo and Juliet _weren't_ soulmates, it makes their story nothing more than a tragic case of mistaken identity. The whole thing becomes quite farcical if you see it that way, don't you think?"

He waits for the usual quip on the things it says about him – instead she bites her lip, seems to retreat in herself, and he frowns just a second. Wondering if he pushed too far, and _how_.

"There's nothing funny about that kind of mistake," she mutters.

Oh – of _course_.

Suddenly _everything_ makes sense.

"That happened to you, didn't it?"

He keeps his eyes up front, staring at the road without really seeing it. And when she freezes in alarm, then fidgets guiltily, he takes it as confirmation.

That's why she didn't bring it up – that's why she gasped. Not because she saw her name in his hand.

Because she _didn't_ see a name.

And it explains everything so perfectly, he wonders how he managed for a while to convince himself it was otherwise.

"I'm sorry," he offers – surprised to find out just how _genuinely_ sorry he is.

She shakes her head.

"It's fine. Was a long time ago," she says, half-shrugging – mouth saying it doesn't matter, slumping shoulders telling another story.

"Was it, really?" he asks quietly.

Then Van Pelt calls with news of a bomb, and they turn around. The fact that his palm doesn't even hint at heating up when they barge in Faulk's room is just more proof. Even if it didn't go off, the man _was_ sleeping over a bomb.

Right?

It's better that way, he tells himself.

And the small, so very small part of him that burns in disappointment is easy to ignore.

* * *

"And now, let us pray," says the priest, hands extended toward the assembly.

She bows her head and closes her eyes, praying in silence while the small piece of bread dissolves on her tongue – but the peace she usually finds in holy rites eludes her, and her mind keeps wandering back to the profane world.

"Dear Lord, we have gathered today in Your presence to give thanks for Your many blessings."

 _Three times this week._

Three times of searing, burning pain in her left hand, each time renewing the worry and grief she never manages to completely shake off around him.

"We who have shared at this table the bread of Your body and the cup of Your blood are grateful for Your guidance in our times of trouble – "

Twice armed suspects have waved guns in his face after he poked at them one time too many, and yesterday night they ended up on a roof with two hypnotised men doing the bidding of a small crazy woman – one of them _their own teammate_.

" – for Your loving protection that guards us against evil – "

She woke up early this morning to try and run her anger with Rigsby to the ground – and when it didn't work, she came here to find some peace. Perhaps even a small amount of forgiveness hidden somewhere in a dark corner of her soul, so that she can plead his case to the Professional Crimes Unit tomorrow and get him back his badge.

 _How could he be so stupid?!_

" – and for Your hand that never leads us astray. We surrender ourselves to You, Lord – "

The sad truth is – being angry with Rigsby is _safe_. He shouldn't be the recipient of her irritation, but being angry with him involves _anger_ , and very little else. Easier to deal with than the tsunami of frustration, disappointment, anguish and heartache that comes with being angry with Jane.

" – so that we may remain under Your wing. Please teach us Your will. Wake up Your love in our hearts – "

Sometimes, for a few seconds at a time, she wished she could go back to denial. When she didn't know for sure if he was her soulmate or not, and didn't have to worry about being emotionally involved in his continued well-being.

Because the lack of physical attraction between them doesn't mean she's blind to the emotional pull they both have toward each other.

" – quench our thirst for Your wisdom, and rekindle the fire of Your faith in our souls. Be our candle in the dark, Lord, and stay by our side until the sun rises again – "

Then she remembers Sam, remembers a late night in her office not too long ago, and the unspoken taboo she broke to finally get answers – not so much for herself than for _him_.

" – so that our hope and confidence may be strengthened by Your Holy Spirit. And as Your light fills our lives and illuminates our path – "

And she realises that maybe, _maybe_ she's been investing in Jane for a long time now. Longer than she has known if they were linked by matching names in their hands or not. Longer than knowing that, each time her hand stings or burns, he's in life-threatening danger again.

" – help us bring light in turn to those around us who need it most."

" _Amen_ ," she whispers in time with the rest of the parish.

Certainly longer than she would care to admit.

"May the Lord be with you."

"And with your spirit."

"May almighty God bless you, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit."

" _Amen_."

"Go in peace," smiles the priest, joining hands before him.

"Thanks be to God."

She remains seated as the crowd moves around her, slowly thins and disappears – until she stays alone in the church, breathing in remnants of incense as she lets her head fall on the pew before her.

Perhaps silence and solitude will help where community and prayer didn't.

"Ma'am? Is everything okay?"

She startles, raises her head in alarm.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," says the priest behind her.

"No no, it's fine," she says, getting up. "I should leave."

The hand that briefly falls on her shoulder is warm and comforting – a far cry from the usual intrusion she feels every time someone touches her.

"Please don't stop praying on my account. I was merely making sure you didn't need assistance. I'm Father Di Buono."

"Teresa Lisbon," she says, extending her hand.

Somehow the introduction seems to be lacking _something_ , she thinks, when she doesn't add her affiliation to law enforcement.

"I, uh – I could use advice," she adds, hesitating.

She _hates_ asking for help.

She hates it, but –

– _isn't she in the right place to ask?_

"Of course. Is this something I need to hear in confession?" says the priest.

She shakes her head. His eyes are kind.

"Then – I was about to head out, get something to eat. Would you care to join me?"

"That's not – well – okay. Thank you."

"Of course."

A gust of fresh air makes her shiver as they walk two blocks to the little dinner at the corner of the street. April is beautiful this year, but the cold morning wind makes her grateful she didn't forget her coat.

"Are you the new priest for our parish?" she asks as they walk. "I don't remember seeing you around. Last time I could attend mass, the officiant was Father, uh – O'Donnel, I think."

"Father O'Donnel is having knee surgery," he answers, smiling. "I'm replacing him for the next two months – he'll be back early June at the latest, just in time for me to go back to South America."

"You do missionary work? That's great. Must be interesting."

"It is. And you're a – police officer, then?"

She startles.

"Yeah, I am. How did you know?"

"The assertive voice and posture, the twenty questions," he grins, opening the door for her. "The way you introduced yourself. I've met a lot of cops in my time, and you have all the signs."

She stays silent.

"It's not a bad thing," he says warmly, noticing her averted eyes.

"I work with the California Bureau of Investigation," she says as they sit. "Team leader of four people."

"High pressure job," he says, eyebrows raised. "Lots of responsibilities."

"You have no idea," she groans softly, busying herself with the menu.

They have eggs, she notes idly. She orders a salad.

"How can I help?" asks Father Di Buono, once their meals are laid before them.

She bites her lip.

"I don't know where to start," she says. "I'm not even sure it was a good idea to come here."

"You won't know if you don't try," he answers matter-of-factly. "Where's the harm? Any word you say to me is protected by the seal of confession, and I'll be leaving town in two months. You don't have to see me ever again after today if you don't want to."

 _Well. That's true enough._

Even knowing she doesn't need to face him again wouldn't usually be enough to make her talk. But his face and demeanour screams _trustworthy_ , and she could really use the help.

"Work trouble?" he prompts lightly, smiling.

"Yes – _no_. Not really. Maybe a little," she says, still biting her lip. "It's complicated."

She moves the food around in her plate.

"I found my soulmate," she adds quietly, spearing a piece of cucumber. "I mean – we've been working together for a while now, but the issue just never came up. Then a few weeks ago I saw – it was just a flash of silver, but – "

"But you know."

"Yes. I know."

The priest nods, and when she raises her eyes to meet his, she's taken aback by the compassion written all over his features.

"You're not in a relationship," he says. "That's unusual."

"No. Jane and I, we're – not like that," she says.

"Because you're both women?"

" _What?_ " she laughs. "Oh! No. _No_. That's his last name. Sorry, it's uh – a cop habit. _Patrick_ Jane. Definitely a man."

Father Di Buono smiles.

"So I take it the problem lies with the man himself, not with your conflicted reaction to 'forbidden desires'," he says, making quotation marks with his fingers.

 _Funny thing for a Catholic priest to do._

"Yes. I'm – worried about him. He's – "

She rubs her eyes tiredly.

"He's careless with his own life, and I don't know what to do about it," she says. "I don't know how to help. And it makes me – _angry_."

"With him?" he asks gently, cocking his head to the side. "Or yourself?"

"Either. _Both_. I care too much, and I don't know how to _stop_ , and he doesn't care _enough_ , and – and sometimes I just want to – "

"Yes?" he prompts when she doesn't finish her sentence.

She breathes noisily, rubs her forehead.

"Sometimes I get so worked up by his antics, I really want to punch him in the nose," she admits, with a light chuckle that holds no amusement whatsoever. "I'm not proud of it. I know I should be patient and understanding because he's had it rough, but sometimes he's just so – _infuriating_. Always causing trouble. And I can deal with that, it's just the – the risks he takes, the – endangering his life constantly. That's what I can't deal with."

"It must be very hard on you," says the priest after a few seconds of silence.

"I don't think he understands that."

"Have you talked about it?"

"No," she says, putting down her fork. "As I said, it's – complicated. Frankly I don't think he's in the right mental state to hear my concerns, and he's not the type to seek professional help if he can avoid it. I try to be there when he needs me, I pray for him constantly, but – "

"But you fear it's not enough?"

She nods – feeling a little choked up, guilt and self-loathing just around the corner.

"What do you ask for, when you pray?"

"For God to keep him safe. To help and support him, bring him peace."

"Then perhaps it's time to start asking for strength," says Father Di Buono gently.

"Strength?"

"Yes. For yourself."

She frowns, opens her mouth to speak, closes it without a word.

" _I'm_ not the one who needs help!" she finally says, insulted. "I've got strength already!"

"Yes, you do. Clearly you are the strongest one of you both. But anyone can falter under a heavy burden, and this one seems overwhelming," he points out. "There's no shame in asking help from God when you need to stay strong for someone else."

She takes a bite of her salad. The dressing is sour. Perhaps she should have been calling Sophie Miller instead of venting her distress to a stranger, priest or not.

"I was hoping for something a little more _concrete_ ," she mutters.

"Does he trust you?" the priest smiles.

"I think. Perhaps. He says so, but there isn't a lot of evidence to prove it."

Another bite. It tastes better this time – must be an acquired taste.

"Does he know he can rely on you?"

Jane's stricken expression when she touched his arm, on the morning before Medina's murder, flashes before her eyes.

"Yes, he knows. He does. Rely on me, I mean. A lot."

"Do you push him out of his comfort zone when he needs it?"

"I think?"

"Respect his clearly established boundaries?"

"Yes."

"Point out his mistakes?"

"All the time!"

"But forgive him when he tries to make amends?"

"Of course."

"Then it seems to me you're already doing everything you can."

Her throat tightens, making the last bite of her meal hard to swallow.

"What if his schemes fail one day and he gets hurt? What if he _kills_ himself with one of his _stupid_ stunts?"

"That's why I urge you to pray God, and ask help for yourself."

She stares – but he stares back, his serious, levelled expression driving the point home.

"Miss Lisbon, short of committing your unwilling soulmate to a psychiatric establishment until he gains back an appreciation for life, there's nothing more you can do. If I believe what you tell me, you're already giving him as much emotional support as he's ready to accept."

"So I should – what, _let go of him?_ Stop caring about what happens to him, enable his obsession with revenge, let him die or commit murder, or both? _I can't do that!_ "

" _Never_ stop caring," says the priest, voice suddenly holding an intensity she didn't expect. "But keep in mind that caring for someone _cannot come at your expense_. Recovery will not happen if the target of your good will doesn't want to get better. The only thing you can do is be there for him, and – if you have the strength – keep a watchful eye to prevent him from making a mistake he won't be able to bounce back from."

A memory of her father passed out on the couch flashes in her mind. She bites her lip again.

"You better than anyone know what he needs," says Father Di Buono. "What he _needs_ , not what he _wants_ – he may not be in the better position to be a judge of that. And this is where prayer _will_ help you. So you can gather the courage to give it to him if you want, or keep away if you can't."

He smiles briefly.

"So you don't lose hope," he adds softly.

"Thank you," she says after a moment of silence. "You've given me food for thought."

He nods.

"Spoken from experience?" she asks, unable to help herself. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't – "

"Oh no, don't worry about it. And – yes. Spoken from experience. Unfortunately."

His smile becomes wry, a mirror of her own.

"My own soulmate is out of my reach – hopefully yours won't be. And on that note, I need to get back to the church very soon," he says after a quick look at his watch. "There's some duties I've been asked to perform this afternoon."

"Of course," she answers, getting up. "Thank you for taking this time with me, Father. And for your advice."

"It was my pleasure," he smiles. "Feel free to come and see me any time."

"I will," she smiles back, surprised and relieved to find out most of her bottled anger has abated.

For the time being, at least.

 _What does Jane need?_

The question haunts her as she walks back home. It shouldn't be that hard to figure it out – they work together every day, as close as they can possibly be given their respective personalities. She knows his personal file in and out, including most of what was left _out_ of it.

For some reason, the answer doesn't come as easily as she expects it.

 _Recognition_ , she thinks as she comes by a small park. She sits on the nearest bench, eyes wandering on the deserted playground. Jane craves recognition of his talents, and respect – but not from everyone. Only from those he values the opinion.

The team mostly, herself included.

Fawning over his brilliance wouldn't do him any good, however – he's patronising enough as it is, and that attitude is _way_ too irritating to encourage.

 _I could learn from him though. If he lets me._

As long as pride doesn't get in the way – for _both_ of them.

She grins to herself, a bit sheepishly perhaps. They _do_ like their friendly competitions.

 _Freedom_ , she thinks next. The wind is still cold and she gets back up, walks toward her place again. Jane needs freedom to express himself, but also _direction_ – and it's a relief to realise the job already gives him plenty of both.

She reaches home as dark clouds start gathering overhead. The team is on call until tomorrow morning – hopefully she'll have the rest of the day off. After hanging her coat in the hallway she lets herself fall on the couch, fingers of her left hand rubbing her forehead, trying to soothe the tension headache brewing behind her eyes.

The sight of his name in her hand just makes the pain sharper.

 _Touch._

Above everything else, _he needs touch_.

She has taken to avoid his physical proximity in the last few weeks, as much as possible anyway – and he has taken to sneaking up behind her, making her jump by speaking loudly in her ear. As if he knew exactly what she was up to, and decided to make it a game.

 _He probably does. Jerk._

But she had time to think, and time to _see_. His starvation for human contact never had anything to do with attraction or sexuality – and her _own_ reaction to his touch never had anything to do with it either.

The problem lies in the fact that physical contact hasn't been a meaningless occurrence to her in a long time.

Not since puberty.

After her mother died, it brought pain through the firsts of her father. When she met Greg it brought pleasure, small amounts of comfort always leading back to intimacy.

Never friendship.

Never anything platonic.

She wants to help him, make sure he stays safe and sound, as much as possible – and _sound_ with him seems to come through touch. But how can she give him the kind of contact he craves when she has no idea how to define it?

Hand climbing up to her cross, she closes her eyes and pray.

* * *

 _Happiness is – so hard to find. Once you find it, you better hang on tight. Or you will lose it._

He stays in the interrogation room as they handcuff Felicia Scott and bring her down to lock-up, her parting words turning around in his mind. Not a usual occurrence with suspects – but there's _something_ about that woman. Something about her tearful act that rings true, even taking the professional liar into account, even being mindful of all the small tells of deception. Lies and truth all mixed up in a sweet, sweet package.

And the words themselves, of course, strike a chord inside.

How could they not? Memories of feminine laughter and blonde curls in the sun, loving smiles and the pitter-patter of little feet on hot sand, all tainted by blood and screams and agony now, drowned in the results of his lies.

Happiness lost – destroyed by his own hand.

 _Nothing I don't deserve._

A fleeting touch on his arm makes him raise his eyes.

"Hey," says Lisbon, frowning lightly. "You okay?"

"Of course," he lies – _lieslieslies_ – before getting up. "I should be asking you that."

" _Me?_ How so?"

He smiles a perfunctory grin, holding the door until she walks past him, then keeping his fingertips at the small of her back. She glances up quickly, but allows it without a word.

 _That's new._

" _Because_ ," he says before it can distract him. "It must have been hard for you to see her be indicted for murder."

"Why would it be? She tricked a teenager into killing her husband!"

His grin becomes more genuine as they walk into the bullpen.

"Come on Lisbon. It's obvious – you have a crush on her."

"Will you _stop_ with that? _I do not!_ "

"A crush on whom?" asks Rigsby, eager to be distracted from his paperwork.

The glare she sends his way could probably burn down all those forms anyway – but her flaming cheeks and that very reaction, stronger than it was just two days ago, are a lot more telling than the half-formed words of protest coming out of her mouth.

 _Interesting._

"Felicia Scott," he grins to Rigsby.

She swats his arm.

"Who _doesn't_ have a crush on Felicia Scott?!" snorts Rigsby. "I still can't believe she turned out to be a killer. Or well, you know – accessory to murder. Hey, do you think she would have been able to pull the trigger herself?"

"I don't see why not. Anyone can become a killer," says Cho, eyes on his computer screen.

"Yeah, but it's such a shame. I mean, come on – _Felicia Scott!_ "

"Yeah, well she's not the first celebrity we had to arrest," says Lisbon. "Get over it."

She seems annoyed by the whole conversation – something which, for some reason he can't pinpoint exactly, delights and amuses him to no end.

"I bet you spent hours watching her movies when you were a teen," he teases. "'Sudden Embrace', right? No no, wait – I bet _you_ liked 'Love Times Two'."

"I _didn't_ ," she says, rolling her eyes. "I told you already I hate all that mushy stuff."

"You're not lying," he says, surprised.

"Come on, Boss! 'Sudden Embrace' isn't _mushy!_ It's a great movie!"

"I'll take 'Die Hard' any day of the week," she laughs.

"Wait – _wait_ a minute. _How come_ you're not lying?!"

" _Why_ would I lie about movies I like or dislike?" she says, bemused.

"Because I know you still watch those from times to times, when you have time off."

" _I don't –_ "

"Yes, you _do_ ," he chuckles, and she shuts up, cheeks heating up again. "Now, why would you spend so much time watching movies you don't – _ah_."

"What?" asks Rigsby, eyes darting from one to the other.

This time she doesn't bother speaking up – her glare alone does the talking, promising flames of wrath and unending pain if he voices his conclusions aloud. He raises his right hand, makes a zipping motion over his lips – grins a little still.

"Where's Van Pelt?" she asks, agitated.

"She went out to get closed case pizza," answers Cho, still focussed on his work.

"Alright, call me when she comes back, I'll be in my office."

She leaves in a hurry, the door closing behind her with a clash of metal and glass. He walks to his couch and waits – it takes Rigsby less than a minute to look at him and raise his eyebrows.

"What was that about?" he asks, just as he knew he would.

"What was?"

"You made that sound!"

"What sound?"

"The sound you make when you figure something out. What was it?"

"I'd tell you, but then our fearless leader would have to get rid of me," he grins. "We can't have that now, can we?"

"Oh _come on_ , Jane," moans Rigsby. "Tell us!"

"Tell us what?" asks Van Pelt, hands full of pizza.

"Kitchen gossip," answers Cho, getting up. "Pepperoni?"

"Here," she says, giving him the box. "Tell us _what?_ "

"We were talking about Felicia Scott," starts Rigsby – and he settles back in his couch, crossing his arms, watching the scene unfolds with a light smirk.

He doesn't miss the dirty look Cho sends his way – but he isn't the one blabbing around, isn't he? So _technically_ , he's not doing anything Lisbon wouldn't want him to do. And watching Van Pelt blink when she catches up, and Rigsby still _doesn't_ , is _priceless_.

"Then he said he didn't understand why she spent so much time watching movies she didn't like, and made that sound – you know, the one he does when he figured out something before everybody else. So I asked him to _share with the class_ , and he said no, and that's when you came in."

"Oh," says Van Pelt, glancing his way with slightly enlarged eyes.

" _So?_ " asks Rigsby very pointedly, raising his eyebrows at him.

"Wayne, _really?_ "

Van Pelt stares at him. Rigsby stares back.

"What?" he asks defensively.

"Lisbon is attracted to Felicia Scott," she answers, rolling her eyes. "She likes women – _likes likes_ them. Or at least, Felicia Scott."

"Oh. _Oh_. What? I – _uh_. Didn't – "

"Kitchen gossip," repeats Cho, taking a bite of pizza. "She didn't say anything, and you shouldn't talk about your boss behind her back."

He grins. Cho's loyalty to Lisbon in full action is always a beautiful thing to watch.

"I don't have a problem with it," says Van Pelt, shrugging. "Do you?" she adds, glancing to Rigsby.

" _No!_ Of course not," he says, eyes widening. "It's just – I didn't expect that, is all."

"Why not?" he asks, getting back up from the couch.

"Well – she's Catholic, isn't she?"

"Yeah. So?" says Cho, frowning.

"Must have been hard, growing up," shrugs Rigsby, looking embarrassed. "Do you think her soulmate is a woman too?"

They're all looking at him now – Rigsby and Van Pelt with various levels of curiosity, and Cho with an impassive look he isn't quite sure he reads well.

"Why are you asking _me?_ " he asks, blinking, when he realises they're waiting for an answer.

"You and Lisbon, you're pretty close," says Rigsby.

He raises a hand.

"Let me rephrase that – why should I tell you anything about it?"

"You _shouldn't_ ," says Cho – and that's a _glare_ if he's not mistaken.

"You heard the man," he grins.

He sits back and crosses his legs, with no intention of saying anything else. Rigsby groans softly, and Van Pelt rolls her eyes – but Cho is watching him with something that looks like approval, and it makes a small part of him feel _warm_.

"Man, I can't imagine having a boy's name in my hand," sighs Rigsby after a while.

"What's wrong with that?" asks Cho, frowning.

 _Rigsby, Rigsby, Rigsby. Foot in mouth, as usual..._

He chuckles softly, gets up and slides a pizza slice on a paper towel.

"Nothing. It's just – I have a _scar_. Kids can be cruel."

"Adults, too," adds Van Pelt, the slant of her mouth revealing a lot more than she probably intends to.

"The scar in your hand spells _Ashley_. How can you be sure it's a girl anyway?"

"I'm not attracted to guys, that's how!"

"That doesn't mean anything."

"What do you mean?" asks Van Pelt.

"If my soulmate's a guy, doesn't mean I'm attracted to guys."

"Of course that's what it means! You can't _not_ be attracted to your soulmate!"

"How can you know? Did you meet yours?"

"No! _It's just common sense!_ "

"She's right. Sounds like common sense to me too," adds Rigsby with a quick nod.

"It's not. What if your ' _Ashley_ ' was a boy?"

" _No_. It can't be."

"You don't know that."

"Cho, is your soulmate a man?" frowns Van Pelt.

"Yeah. Why are you obsessed with soulmates?"

" _I'm not obsessed!_ "

"You kinda are though," chuckles Rigsby.

 _Probably the right time to retreat._

They keep bickering as he makes his way to Lisbon's office and opens the door, slinking inside without announcing himself. She keeps working without a word.

"Hey," he says after a few seconds. "Pizza."

She raises her eyes after checking a last box on her report.

"Why didn't you call me when Van Pelt came back?"

"I figured you'd rather enjoy the quiet of your office. The kids are fighting," he grins.

She rolls her eyes, but takes the slice nonetheless.

"Is it something I have to break out?"

"Not unless you want to walk in the middle of a speculative discussion about soulmates."

A wave of distaste washes over her face, leaving a scowl on its shore. He chuckles.

"That's what I thought."

"If the kids are out there, what does that make _you?_ "

"The funny uncle, of course."

She snorts. He flashes a smile, then walks to her couch and settles there – concealing a smirk while she eats in silence, doing her best _not_ to look at him.

"How old were you when you first figured out you were attracted to women?" he asks after she swallows her last bite.

Without looking, she throws a pen in his general direction – he watches it sail three feet to his right.

"Not a subject I want to talk about."

"Why not?"

"Because it's a personal matter, and none of your business."

"Alright," he smiles.

Then waits.

It takes about five seconds before she starts fidgeting. He grins – making no effort to hide it this time.

"Seriously, stop," she says, glaring.

"Stop what? I'm not doing anything."

"You're waiting for me to talk about – _stuff_."

"What stuff?"

" _Stuff I don't want to talk about!_ What's it matter whom I'm attracted to?"

"Nothing at all. Why are you being so defensive?"

" _I'm not!_ "

She is, though. There's a strange mix of shame, embarrassment, frustration and annoyance in her voice – and it's giving her a headache, if he reads the signs accurately.

"Lisbon," he says. "You know I'm not going to give you grief for that, right?"

"I know."

"The team isn't, either."

" _I know_."

"Then why are you upset?"

"You really don't know?"

She sighs, puts down her pen. Considers him for a second before rubbing the bridge of her nose.

"You _really_ don't know. Wow. That must be a first."

"Well?"

"I want more pizza before Rigsby eats it all," she says, getting up.

He chuckles at the non-sequitur. Classic Lisbon deflection.

"You coming?" she asks, before crossing the threshold.

"In a moment."

He waits until she's out of sight before getting up – then stays behind, leaning against the threshold Lisbon stood in just moments ago.

Watching.

Watching as Cho, Rigsby and Van Pelt greet her with smiles and waves, all leaping up from their seats when she gets closer – just like children when the teacher walks in. But the way they close ranks around her, all vying for her attention, hint at something more primal.

He wonders if they know – if they consciously acknowledge their own place in this found family of theirs. If Cho enjoys being an older brother to Rigsby's middle child, if Rigsby, attraction to her notwithstanding, enjoys being the overbearing, protective one to Van Pelt's baby of the family.

Lisbon certainly enjoys being mother to them all.

"Jane!" calls Van Pelt, snapping his attention back to reality.

They're staring at him now. Cho, as inscrutable as ever, and Rigsby with some amount of confusion and unease, and Van Pelt with quiet surprise, as if she isn't quite sure what to make of him.

Lisbon on the other hand is smiling lightly, waving him over.

"We saved you the last slice, come on."

The greeting differences aren't lost on him.

She's still upset, and he _really_ has no idea why – the lines of tension in her neck and shoulders don't lie, even as she smiles and laughs with her team. And her fingers are still folded over her left palm, something she often does around him these days.

A lot more than she used to.

 _Stop. She isn't._

Which doesn't mean he shouldn't _do something_. He hates it when she's upset, and for all he knows, she's stressed because of something he did. Or said. _Again_. And he won't apologise – _why should he?_ – but he can make it up to her, one way or another.

So he walks to them, his smile a little lopsided, and takes pizza from Van Pelt's hands with playful, lavish words of gratitude. Then he turns to Lisbon.

"Remind me, when is your birthday again?"

He doesn't need reminding, of course – it's just a simple trick that works better when the target is distracted, like she is now.

"The 28th," she answers, barely glancing at him before turning back to Rigsby.

"September, right? You look like a September girl."

"No, April. Why?"

But her team members are all staring at her now, and he grins.

 _Perfect._

"What?" she asks, eyes going from one to the other.

"Boss," says Van Pelt, eyes wide open. "That's in, like, _five days_."

"It is? Oh yeah, it is. So?"

His grin widens.

"Well then, let's throw a party! It'll be an occasion to cheer everyone up."

"I think it's a great idea!" says Van Pelt, glowing in excitation.

The idea spreads like wildfire, just as he planned – and as he watches them make a fuss over Lisbon, who badly conceals the surprised pleasure she feels, he lets out a small sound of satisfaction. It's a step.

And if happiness eludes _him_ , nothing prevents him from enjoying the happiness of _others_.

* * *

Somewhere far, far away, a phone is ringing.

She turns away, hides her head under the blanket – but it keeps on ringing, the persistent little thing, and with a groan she stretches her back, hand fumbling on the night table.

"'Lo?" she mumbles.

"Agent Lisbon?" says a stern voice in her ear.

"Hey Boss," she yawns, blinking off the residual sleepiness. "What's up?"

" _Your team_ is up, Lisbon," comes Minelli's amused answer, and she hears him laugh when she groans again. "Sausalito, Marin County. Local PD is waiting for you, I'll text you the address."

She sits, pushing the blankets away, left hand rubbing her eyes. It's early, the sun barely up.

"Do I need to call Jane on this one?" she asks, trying to get rid of the fogginess in her brain.

"Ah – you, uh – you may want to give him a pass. It's May 10th today."

She frowns.

 _May 10th?_

"Just how high profile is that case?"

"Very."

"Then I need Jane on this."

There's a noise sounding a lot like embarrassed shuffling on the other end of the line.

"You're right, we _do_ need him on this case," Minelli says after a few seconds. "Call him. _Ask_. If he says no, let him be. I'll take responsibility for that one. Understood?"

"Sure," she says with a shrug.

"Then I'll let you and your team be on your way."

 _Well. That was weird._

She calls Van Pelt first, mindful of the fact she needs more time in the field – asks her to liaison with Sausalito's local police department for the information on the case, and leaves a message to Rigsby with the address Minelli just texted her.

Then she calls Jane.

No answer.

 _What's going on?_

She tries again after a quick shower, then calls the office when it goes straight to voice-mail.

"California Bureau of Investigation, how can I help you?"

"Hey Rebecca," she says.

"Oh hi, Teresa! Bosco's in the field right now, did you want me to leave him a message?"

"Uhm, no – well _yes_ , tell him I said hi. But – hey, I expected Cho to answer, didn't he have the night shift?"

"Ah, no – he asked for personal time yesterday, something about his mother I think."

"Crap, I hope everything's okay. In the meantime, perhaps you can help me – Jane's not answering his phone and I really need to reach him, do you have his home address close by?"

"Of course, I have it right... here... Oops, that one's in Malibu, is that what you're looking for?"

"No, I'm looking for his current address in Sacramento."

"Sure, it must be on file somewhere. Just give me a minute."

"Of course."

She puts her shoes on and grabs her bag, then pours coffee in her travel mug. When Rebecca comes back to her, she's ready to leave.

"Okay, I found something here, but I'm not sure if it's right."

"How come?"

"It's the address of an extended stay motel. But he's been living in town a long time, right? Do you want it anyway?"

"Is it the only address on file for him?"

"With the exception of his house in Malibu, yes."

"Sure," she sighs. "Give it to me, I'll go check it out."

 _Would be just like Jane, neglecting to update his current address..._

The motel is barely fifteen minutes from her place, and on the way to route I-80 leading to Sausalito anyway – she has time to check it out. Carefully skirting around the stray thought reminding her she probably wouldn't do as much for any other member of her team, she parks near the main entrance. A light wind carrying dust brushes her legs as she walks to the door, and the fading colours on the building's façade give the whole place an air of desolation. The inside is very clean however, if a bit sombre, and the young man at the desk has a kind smile.

"Hi," she says, flashing her badge. "I'm Agent Lisbon with the CBI. I'd like you to confirm if Patrick Jane is renting Room 229 please."

"Uh – I think that's his name, yes. Is there a problem?"

"It's okay, we work together. He didn't come in this morning and I'm a bit worried."

"Oh. Well, let me check the register – yeah, Room 229, Patrick Jane."

"Thanks. If you were planning on calling, tell him I'll be right there."

It takes her five minutes to circle the building and finally notice the blue beetle parked in the driveway. She rolls her eyes.

 _Should have started with that._

Room 229 is on the second floor. With a sigh, she climbs the stairs, drinking what's left of her coffee before knocking twice. Then she waits. There's a shuffle on the other side of the door, but when nobody answers after a minute, she knocks again. And once more, louder.

" _Coming_ , no need to break it," grunts Jane, finally opening.

He blinks.

She blinks, too. His pyjama matches with his car.

"Lisbon? What are you doing here?" he asks, voice rough from sleep.

"We have a case. You weren't answering your phone."

The excuse sounds flimsy now, and she tries hard not to blush – and probably fails. He blinks again, then moves to let her in.

"Please tell me it's not a Red John case," he says quietly, pulling on the rumpled blankets in an attempt to make the bed.

"It's not Red John," she answers, unable to stop staring at him.

He probably didn't get a wink of sleep in the last three days, which explains the curls sticking all over the place, the crumpled night clothes and the unshaven jaw – but not the quiet despair looming over him.

"Are you working this case?" she says, because she has no idea how to ask him what's going on.

"Do I have to?" he whines – making her roll her eyes.

"No, you don't," she says, raising her eyebrows. "But what's the alternative? Being miserable alone in a motel room?"

He looks startled, then grateful, then startled again before he manages to control his facial expressions and smooth them over.

"Okay," he says. "Do I have time for a shower?"

"Make it quick."

He nods, picking up clothes on his way to the bathroom, and closes the door. Soon after she hears water hitting the shower stall, and she allows herself a look around for the first time.

It's –

 _– drab._

Beige and taupe walls, earth tones in an impersonal set-up, pictures of dead trees everywhere on the walls – the only thing that screams _Jane_ in this room is the well-stocked tea tray in a corner of the kitchenette.

 _This isn't a home. How can he stand it?_

The answer, of course, is that _he doesn't_. He spends as much time as humanly possible in the CBI offices, keeping his books on the window sill and every other available surface, more than a single change of clothes in his gym locker, and sleeping at night on his couch – or hers.

Shaking her head, she makes sure there's water in the kettle before flicking the switch on – and soon after, when the shower stops, she washes the travel mug she was still holding and fishes milk out of the fridge.

 _Half a second_ _– done. Okay._

She considers the selection of colourful tea bags, hand hovering over the English Breakfast yellow paper wrap, something she saw him drink often in the morning – but after some hesitation, she picks up a bag of Earl Grey.

 _That's what he chose when he needed comfort._

The door to the bathroom opens just as she throws away the wet tea bag – it releases a burst of steam before Jane appears, shirt outside his trousers, bare feet clapping on the floor tiles.

"I'll be just a moment," he mouths around a toothbrush. "Have you seen my jacket?"

A quick look around reveals no jacket.

"Is that a permission to snoop in?"

He chuckles, spits in the sink.

"You mean you didn't already?"

"Who do you take me for?"

New chuckle. When he comes back, his shirt is tucked in under a vest.

 _It suits him._

"Should have known," he says, crossing the room and pulling out socks from a drawer. "Gonna have to find that jacket though."

"It's a hot day," she says, averting her eyes from his naked toes. "And the steam got rid of the usual wrinkles in your shirt, so there's no need to cover the sleeves. You should hang them in the bathroom more often."

He makes a humming sound.

"Ready to go?"

"Ready."

" _Finally_. Here, take this," she says, putting the travel mug in her hands. "Let's go."

She steps out, then realises he isn't following.

"Jane?"

"You made me tea?"

He sports an expression of stunned disbelief she isn't sure she understands the meaning of.

"Well, what was I supposed to do while you were in the shower? We're running late, _chop-chop!_ "

He stays strangely subdued while she calls Cho, sipping from his tea and glancing at her every minute or so. Cho's mother, fortunately, is fine – a case of flu running around, he explains, and a small scare when she got dizzy and fell. He'll be back to work the next day.

 _That's a relief._

It's a quarter past nine when they get to the highway, but the sun is shining bright and Jane seems to cheer up a little.

"Thank you," he says quietly, after a while.

"What for?" she asks, glancing his way.

Eyes closed, he's basking in the sunlight like a lazy cat.

"For the tea. It was perfectly made, you're getting good at that," he answers with a smile.

She rolls her eyes, nudges him playfully – twice, until the smile turns into a grin.

"And for the company, too," he adds, barely audible.

Her phone rings before she has time to comment – which is a good thing, because she has no idea what to say to _that_.

"Van Pelt?" she says, holding her phone with one hand. "What's going on?"

"I got the information off Sausalito PD. Apparently there's a boat we need to check out, it's docked in Pelican Cove Marina."

"Boats. _Great_ ," she groans. "Text me the address, we'll be there in half an hour."

When she turns back to Jane, he's sleeping – or making a good job of pretending he is, anyway.

She lets him be.

 _Perhaps he didn't really want an answer either._

He wakes up on his own just as she parks the car near the docks' entrance. At first a sharp breath, eyes wide open, fixated on something only he can see. Then a trembling hand raised to rub the bridge of his nose, the corner of his eyes – probably wiping non-existent tears, she thinks.

 _Nightmare. What the hell is wrong with him? I haven't seen him that out of sorts in a long time._

"You okay?" she asks.

"Yeah," he answers, voice muffled by the hand still covering his face.

"We're here," she says, fingers ghosting over his shoulder.

He takes a deep breath – when he releases it, there's a small smile on his lips, one she knows exists only to stop questions.

"Let's go then."

They walk side by side until they reach the right dock, where Van Pelt meets them. Rigsby, on the other hand, stays crouched on the side of the dock.

"What do we got?" she asks.

"Jim Gulbrand, C.E.O. and founder of the software company Gaia Matrix, was reported missing by his live-in brother yesterday," says Van Pelt. "Local PD responded to the call, but they didn't check the boat until this morning. They found blood on the deck, but no sign of a body."

"Why is it ours?"

"The marina is privately owned, on lease by the city of Sausalito. It was local PD's decision whether or not to take the case."

She half-groans, half-laughs. She can nearly feel Jane's amusement behind her.

"Mmm. High-profile missing person case. Wonder why they wouldn't take that."

Van Pelt smirks. Rigsby coughs – a rumbling wet sound she doesn't like at all. He doesn't follow when they reach the boat.

"You coming?"

"He's not feeling well. Stomach," says Van Pelt.

"I'm fine," grumbles Rigsby, before dissolving in a new coughing fit.

 _He should be at home._

"You get me sick, I'm gonna put you on stake-out for a month!" she frowns at him, trying to cover her worry.

Judging by his grateful expression when he answers, she didn't make the best job of it – which should be expected, seeing as they've been working together over six years now. She rolls her eyes, but can't help smiling a little as they climb up the boat.

Smile that disappears as soon as they get on the deck.

"This is it?" she asks, eyeing the small drop of blood on the floor with disbelief.

"Yeah," says Van Pelt.

"No sign of struggle, no weapon?!"

"Nothing."

 _Great. Boats, and now this. Just great.  
_

"What else do we know about the victim?"

Jane catches her eye as Van Pelt prattles on, as if silently asking to go off on his own. She nods, and he leaves by the left, walking to the back of the boat. Frowning slightly, she takes the right, looking around for clues – for anything that could explain what happened really.

She catches sight of him on the docks, slowly walking the length of the boat, looking up – she does the same in reverse, reaching an opening on the side a few seconds before he does.

 _What's up with that?_

She plays with the lock, opens and closes the door. Her left hand reaches up, tugging on a wisp of hair as she thinks.

 _Was it used to drop the body out at sea? No blood on the handle_ –

Jane looks up, slightly shakes his head. For once, they seem in agreement. They won't find the answer there.

They walk side by side, he down on the pier, she up on the deck – her left hand lazily trailing on the metal railing, his right doing the same on the heavy rope tying the boat to the dock, keeping constant eye contact until they reach the bow. At which point she bends over the railing, letting her gaze fall in the water and climb up the anchor's rusting chain, until she blinks and realises –

 _Why is the anchor down?_

Jane is looking up at her, and she can see the exact same question written all over his face. She nods, then turns around, walks to the captain's cabin – reaches the dashboard just as he comes in.

" – your body and your killer are never to be found," says Van Pelt behind her.

"That'd make perfect sense," says Jane, settling in near her, checking on the left side as she takes the right.

"This one?" she says, pushing on a button. "No.

\- Nope. How about this one?" he asks.

A shrill noise rings outside.

"What are you doing?" asks Van Pelt, nonplussed.

"Well, there's no use in being anchored when you're tied up at the dock," says Jane.

He comes back near her, looking over her arm on her side of the dashboard.

" _Ah_ ," they say at the same time, when their eyes fall on the right switch.

She flashes him a quick grin.

"After you," he says, grinning just the same.

She flips up the switch – there's a rustling sound up front, and they reach the bow just in time to see the anchor pulling up the corpse they were looking for. Poor Rigsby sickens up, and she can hear both Jane's and Van Pelt's dismay at the disgusting sight.

 _Waterlogged bodies are always the worst._

"Jane, bring Rigsby back to the car, will you? Van Pelt, call forensics, I'll go down and get a better look."

She has no desire to see – _and smell_ – that body closer, but she can't expect a queasy team to do work she isn't ready to do herself.

Jane for once is quick to obey, and soon disappears up the pier with Rigsby. Van Pelt stays close by, however, glancing at her every now and then with a puzzled expression as she tapes the place up, then walks to the body and jots down a few notes.

"Boss, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," she says distractedly, trying to figure out if she can safely reach Gulbrand's pockets without falling in the water.

 _Better wait until the forensic people unhook him._

"How long have you and Jane worked together?"

She blinks.

"A little under five years. Why?"

" _Wow_ ," says Van Pelt, voice full of worship.

She chuckles, a bit uneasy, turns her attention back to the body.

"Can I – uh, ask you a _personal_ question?"

"Can't guaranty I'll answer."

"Are you and Jane, uh – soulmates?"

" _Who told you that?_ " she asks sharply, turning on herself so quickly she nearly falls off the dock.

Van Pelt appears taken aback by the violence of her reaction, but she really can't be bothered – panic is filling her mind with half-formed thoughts of losing her job, losing the respect of her peers, losing Minelli's trust.

 _Who knows and talked? Cho wouldn't. Would he? No, I can't believe that. But no one else knows. Sam? He guessed, but I never confirmed. He wouldn't – I really hope he wouldn't, but – who else knows? Nobody!_

"Uh, Jane told me, a few months ago? I mean – I thought he was joking, so I didn't take him seriously, but – Boss, what you did together just now? I've never seen anything like that. You're so in sync', it's a bit scary."

She'll have to go back to that, and _soon_ , but for now there's only sweet, sweet relief flooding her senses.

 _Nobody talked. It's all fine._

And then –

 _What the hell was he thinking?!_

"So – are you?"

"You should know better than to believe anything coming out of Jane's mouth by now," she answers with a forced laugh.

One Van Pelt appears to take at face value – or at least, she hopes so.

"That kind of thing happens when you work closely with someone," she adds. "Cho and Rigsby do the same thing all the time."

Except they don't, not really.

"I'm gonna kill him," she mutters to herself, which makes her colleague laugh.

"Lisbon?" calls Jane from the end of the pier, waving both arms to attract her attention.

 _Speak of the devil._

"Stay here," she says to Van Pelt. "What do you want?" she asks dryly, walking to him.

"Do you still need Rigsby and I here?" he asks, looking antsy. "I was thinking he could use the rest today, and I – I have some personal errands to take care of. If you don't mind, I'll bring him back home and we'll both be there tomorrow morning, bright and early."

And all thoughts of giving him a hard time dissolve in her mind because suddenly she remember what May 10th stands for, and why Minelli was so reluctant to bring Jane on this case today.

 _Crap. It's the sixth year anniversary of his family's death._

"Fine. We'll set up interviews for tomorrow. Bring him to a doctor. I'll ride with Van Pelt later," she says, dropping the car keys in his open palm.

He thanks her with a nod, starts walking away.

"Jane?" she calls back on a whim.

He turns his head, looks at her with raised eyebrows.

One day, they'll _have_ to talk about it.

Just – not now.

"Take care of yourself," she says, lightly biting on her bottom lip.

The little smile he sends her way is heartbreaking.

* * *

"Welcome back, Mr. Jane," says the waitress as he walks in.

Though her voice is firm, her body language screams surprise and mild panic – no doubt she didn't expect him so early. He usually comes in the evening, after work, not in the middle of the afternoon.

 _Good thing I always book in for the whole day._

"Here is your bandage. Your order will be right in," she smiles once he's seated.

"Thank you," he answers, the last words he intends to say for the next five hours.

 _At least._

He picks up the white roll of bandage and slowly wraps up his left hand – when he's done fastening it, there's a glass waiting for him.

His first drink, as usual, tastes like tears.

He hates Bloody Mary cocktails. But Angela loved them, and both taste and colour fuel his resolve – at least as much as the empty seats facing him.

 _Six years. Nothing._

The plates are too white.

For a moment, just a small moment, he's tempted to order food for his ghosts, or drinks – to splash a few drops of his red cocktail on the blank china so the sight won't be so hollow. But he squashes the impulse, as always.

Today is all about emptiness.

Twenty-four hours in which he doesn't allow himself the comfort of make-believe.

His family is gone.

So instead, he lets the salt numb his tongue, and the alcohol numb his mind, and the ice numb his fingers, because that's not make-believe – that's acknowledging the hole in his life where his loved ones should be, and grieving the only way he has left.

He finishes the first one.

Starts on the second.

 _I miss you._

 _I'm sorry._

 _I'll get him soon, I promise._

All empty words coming too late.

Too late.

 _Too late._

Nausea settles slowly in his stomach after the fourth drink, but he keeps going as long as possible, as long as his mind works enough to trick his body into drinking one more.

One more.

One more.

 _Stop. I can't take it anymore._

"Was this the last one, Mister Jane?" asks the waitress, with a hint of disquiet.

"Last one. Yes," he slurs.

"Can I call you a cab?"

"Please."

He takes a deep breath. The room is spinning around him, making the task of getting up a thousand times harder than it should be. But that's okay – it means it's working.

 _Perhaps I'll get some sleep tonight._

He deserves every hour of insomnia he gets.

"What time izzit?" he asks, walking slowly to the front desk.

"Five minutes past nine," answers the bartender.

"Did I set my table? – I mean, _settle_ my _tab?_ "

"You always do beforehand, Mister Jane."

"Oh. Okay," he says, putting his wallet on the counter top. "Then, take – this," he adds, pulling out a note. "For you. And – another, for the lady."

The young man flusters easily, he notices. Could be because of the money – people _always_ get hung up on the _money_ – or could be –

"Sorry for the mess. And – don't forget to call your mother," he says, waving a hand as he walks through the door.

It's raining lightly when he steps outside, and the cold droplets are bliss to his overheated skin. Extending his arms, he tilts his head lightly to the back, mindful of his balance – drops fall on his nose and chin, but none of them on his tongue.

 _That's a pity_.

He tries laughing at himself, but it comes out unamused and strangely _off_. The honk of a taxi parked in the street startles him.

"Coming!" he yells, keeping his arms extended to each side as he walks to the car.

"Where to?" asks the driver in a bored tone.

"Home," he whispers, suddenly overcome by sadness.

"Where is home?"

 _Where is home?_

"Eleven – er, Oh-Two," he says, scratching his head. "Cue. Q Street," he adds after a second. "Yeah. And that's – your cue. To go. Home."

Home.

 _No more home._

He's surprised – _but not overly_ – when the taxi stops in front of the CBI building. Was that the address he gave? He can't remember – his mind is foggy, and thinking is hard. Just what he wanted. Although he's not sure _why_ exactly his drunken reaction was to go back to _work_.

Perhaps because that's where the Red John files are, and he needs to catch Red John.

No. Not catch him.

Kill him.

Cut him open.

Like he did his Annie, his Charlotte.

"Here," he says, head spinning as he drops the entire content of his wallet in the taxi driver's hand. "Keep the change."

Paddling past security is easy – finding the button to the right floor in the elevator, a lot harder. But he manages, after two misses, and is grateful that someone left the lights opened in the kitchen. Makes it a lot easier to find his way to the bullpen.

He lets himself fall on his couch with a relieved groan.

The relief, however, is short-lived.

His clothes are wet, and stick to his skin. The leather of his couch is cold, which would be nice if he was dry because his skin is still hot and clammy, but now just makes him shiver. And the throw he keeps around _stinks_ – the faint smell of morning breath and unwashed body embedded in the fabric is enough to revive his latent nausea.

He feels miserable.

 _Deserves_ to feel miserable, but _knowing_ he deserves it doesn't make it less unpleasant.

He's never been good at being miserable, anyway – and there's a much better blanket in Lisbon's office. Perhaps she'd let him take it tonight? Surely she wouldn't mind. As long as he doesn't puke on it, but he would never do _that_.

 _Alright. Up._

He trips once or twice, catching himself on Cho's desk, nearly crashing into the printer. But he gets to Lisbon's office in one piece and even manages to find the cupboard on the first try.

It's locked.

 _Crap._

"Jane? What are you doing here?"

He frowns. That sounded suspiciously like Lisbon's voice.

"Jane?"

 _Yup. Lisbon. That's great. No need to break the cupboard's lock._

"Blanket," he says, tripping on his own tongue. "Mine stinks. Yours smell better. Please?"

"Are you _drunk?_

"Just a little," he slurs, trying for a grin.

Judging by her expression, it probably came off more like a grimace.

"Okay. Maybe more than a little. Maybe a lot," he amends.

She likes it better when he's honest. Right? Although he isn't quite sure – she doesn't look happy at all right now.

" _God_ , Jane," she says softly.

What did you call that kind of voice again? A broken sigh? No – a groan, with hints of anger? Something painful, anyway.

He knows pain.

"You're dripping water everywhere. Get off that shirt, you'll catch a cold," she says again, tugging on the sleeve.

"Wanna get me naked?"

" _You wish!_ "

"No. Annie wouldn't like it."

A quiet sob echoes against the walls.

He isn't sure if it's his or Lisbon's.

"Where's your overnight bag?"

"In the trunk of my car."

"Where's your car?"

"Uh – "

She sighs.

"Do you have a change of clothes in your locker?"

"No. Laundry day."

He thinks she may have rolled her eyes at him, but trying to make sense of the motion is making him dizzy.

"You should fit in my night jersey. Get that off," she repeats.

He pulls on the buttons with numb fingers, trying to unfasten the tiny things without popping them off. Meanwhile, Lisbon is making noise behind him, and he isn't quite sure what she's looking for – _what's a night jersey?_ – until he lets his wet shirt fall on the floor and turns around, just in time to catch supple fabric on his face.

" _Put that on_ ," she says, and there's definitely a hint of anger in her voice now – real anger, not annoyance.

He wouldn't even dream of doing otherwise – the oversized sweater is _perfection_. Soft and _worn_ and warm, just a bit tight but not too much, and smelling nicer than any of his own shirts.

"Get on the couch, I'll find you my blanket," she adds, sending him in the right direction with light pressure in the small of his back. "God, you're a mess."

She isn't happy with him, and for some reason that makes him sad.

"I'm sorry," he tries to say – but even to his ears it sounds more like _'em sherry'_ , and she doesn't answer.

His trousers are wet and stick to his skin, so he unbuckles his belt and tries to take them off, only to find his shoes are in the way. He kicks them off and tries to remove his trousers again, but his legs seem to have sprouted more legs and his balance isn't quite right – then Lisbon is by his side, helping him settle down without a word, nearly vibrating with a mix of emotions he's in no state to read or figure out.

"I'm sorry," he tries again, wondering where all the water on his face is coming from.

"Sleep. We'll talk tomorrow," she answers.

He closes his eyes, and falls asleep to the soothing motion of fingers ghosting over his temple.

When he wakes up, there's a warm cup of ginger tea waiting for him on the top of her filing cabinet. He reaches for it with shaking hands, drinks half of it before opening his eyes a second time.

 _What am I wearing?!_

 _Not much_ is the answer. Uneasy, he squints until the room comes into focus and he spots his trousers over the back of a chair, shirt and vest hanging on the doorknob. As he puts them back on, disjointed flashes of the night before prickle at his mind like an army of small needles taking a pincushion by storm.

He's just done folding Lisbon's jersey when she knocks at the door.

"You decent?"

"Yeah," he answers, voice scratchy.

She comes in, closes the door behind her and sits at her desk, arms folded on her chest.

 _Defensive._

"Sorry for yesterday night," he says. "I, uh – wasn't planning on coming back here."

She waves her hand, staring right at him – right _through_ him.

"I don't mind you sleeping here," she says. "But – Jane. Is this going to be a habit?"

"Uhm, which part?" he grins sheepishly. "Because me barging in your office at night is, uh, already an habit, I'm afraid."

"The drinking part," she says, unamused.

He winces.

"No," he answers. "Just – once a year."

"On the anniversary."

"Yes."

"Okay," she nods. "Okay."

At least half of her tension drops, allowing them both to breathe more easily.

"Did you hurt yourself?" she asks, her voice nearly back to normal.

He frowns.

"There's a bandage on your left hand," she adds.

"Oh! No. It's – "

He swallows, stricken.

Wonders if he should tell her the truth.

Wonders if he _wants_ her to know the truth.

But she took care of him yesterday night, when he couldn't even _think_ without tripping all over himself. And yesterday morning, too, now that he thinks of it.

His wife would want him to play nice – and _true_.

Lisbon _deserves_ the truth.

 _And it doesn't really matter anyway, because she isn't, isn't, isn't my_ –

" – the name," he says, unravelling the bandage. "Seeing it shining in my palm on the anniversary of their – _murder_ , it's – "

 _Unbearable._

Nausea hits him full force – he barely has time to reach for the paper basket before painfully emptying the content of his stomach.

And again.

And again, until there's nothing left and he dry heaves, throat raw and stomach in agony.

"Urk," he croaks, eyes clenched shut.

"Hey. You okay?" says Lisbon, making light, soothing motions on his back.

"I owe you a – a new paper basket," he answers, trying for a smile.

" _Yeah_ , you do," she chuckles. "We leave in three hours to interview Gulbrand's brother, do you think you'll be up to it? If not, I can drive you back home on our way."

 _I'm home already_ , he thinks, eyes closed.

Surprised to realise how true it is.

"I should be fine," he says.

"Then you better hit the showers downstairs and find yourself a change of clothes," she smirks, nudging his shoulder. "You smell like a brewery gone bad."

"That's not very kind," he says, mock-offended.

There's still a shadow in her eyes when she looks at him. But then she smiles brightly, and it's _genuine_ , and his head hurts too much to ponder on it – on _anything_ – right now.

"Perhaps, but it's very true," she laughs. "Go."

She's not angry anymore.

 _It'll have to do._

He grins, relieved when she grins back, and ducks out of her office – waiting for the outrage he knows is coming.

"Hey, wait a minute – _Jane!_ You're not leaving me with your sick basket, are you?! _Jane, come back here!_ "

She catches up to him easily, thrust the basket in his hands, and he can't help a delighted chuckle bubbling up when she starts yelling at him with exaggerated hand movements. Because _this_ , the banter and the teasing and the berating, this is _theirs_. There's no one else Lisbon yells at like this, and there's no one else he teases that way. They don't _need_ to be bonded by names and palms and special circumstances – what they have is plenty precious. Plenty enough.

Somehow he made himself a place in the world again, somehow _she_ became his home, and right now he feels no guilt for it, no pain.

He just feels _safe_.

* * *

 **Next one in two to three weeks.  
**

So uhm, I was wondering if the length of these chapters is bothering you? I figure each of them takes between 45 minutes and an hour to read for native English speakers, which I've always found to be just the right amount of time I enjoy spending on a new update. But I've since realised chapters in TM fandom often peak around 2k words, and rarely go over 5k (which is just about half the length of mine).

I don't want to put off people, so if you'd rather I cut them in half from now on, please tell me! Next one is nearly done so I won't be halving it, but I could try and do something about the ones that come after.


	6. Interlude: Red John's Footsteps

_**Disclaimer:**_ _ **As you probably guessed by now, this show and its characters aren't mine.**_

 **On TM's geography** : I'm not from the US – but that's okay, Bruno Heller isn't either! There's only one Hattiesburg city in all of the states, and it's in Mississippi. San Angelo _park_ is near Los Angeles but San Angelo _city_ is in Texas, and related to this story but not to this chapter, there's no Carson Springs in California either. There _is_ a _Carson_ city near Los Angeles though, and a Stoney Ridge _winery_ in... Canada (and another one in New Zealand if I'm not mistaken). Oops?  
So for all intents and purposes, in this story, Carson and Carson Springs are one and the same, San Angelo is located near Los Angeles, and Hattiesburg is about an hour from San Angelo. It messes a tiny little bit with what we see on-screen, but TM itself does a lot worse and trying to keep things consistent and realistic otherwise is a nightmare.

 **Warnings:** Jane being depressed and suicidal, canon killing of a character and religious concepts used as swear words. If any of this triggers you, please stay safe.

 **Spoilers:** Some dialogues are taken directly from 1.23 "Red John's Footsteps". Allusion to events happening in 1.02 "Red Hair and Silver Tape", and expanding on a quote from 7.10 "Nothing Gold Can Stay".

* * *

 **Kindred**  
 **Interlude: Red John's Footsteps**

They find the place they're looking for on a small road in the middle of nowhere, about an hour away from the Plaskett's. Small rocks and sand bounce off the driveway, hit the sides of the car as they park in front of the little house covered in ivy. It's beautiful, in an 'old derelict garden' sort of way – still, the mere sight of the display makes her shudder when she thinks of all the bugs and pests it must attract.

Jane, of course, is delighted – or would be, if this wasn't what _could be_ their first lead in the Red John case _ever_ , and he had enough concentration left to admire his surroundings.

 _Hard not to get excited._

Piano echoes in the distance as they walk to the door.

"Are you sure this is the right Rosalind?" he asks.

"There's only two Rosalind in the Hattiesburg phone book. The other one is 73 and married."

The look on his face is intense, full of anticipation and fear as she knocks. The piano stops – a few seconds later, the door opens on a beautiful red-haired woman, facing them with blank features and an extreme lack of curiosity.

"Rosalind Harker?" she asks, frowning slightly.

"Yes."

"We're with the California Bureau of Investigation," she says, flashing her badge. "May we come in?"

"Would you show me some ID, please?"

 _She's blind. Oh my God._

Jane looks crestfallen as the woman runs her fingertips on her badge – and to be honest, she's not faring much better. His enthusiasm was catching, as much as she tried to deny it.

"What is this about?" asks Rosalind, giving her badge back.

"We would like to ask you some questions about Roy Tagliaferro," she says.

"Roy Tagliaferro? What are you investigating?"

"We're with the homicide and serious crimes unit. What can you tell us about Roy?"

"Not a thing until you tell me why you want to know!"

"We believe he could be a serial murderer named Red John," says Jane.

Rosalind shakes her head.

"No. That's absurd!" she laughs, shying away from them.

"May we come in?"

"No!"

"No Ma'am, we're not leaving."

The redhead tries to close the door, but Jane puts his foot in the threshold, pushing his way in. She follows him, because what else can she do?

"You don't know him!" says Rosalind, before disappearing upstairs.

A door slams shut somewhere. She glances at Jane, who sends back an indecipherable look before running up after her. She stays downstairs, listening as he talks about his family, pain seeping from every word – hears him soften the scared woman until she lets him in. Then he closes the door behind them and she can't hear them anymore.

She waits for him to work his magic, the way he always do.

It doesn't take long – five minutes at most. Rosalind comes back with a carefree step, offering tea and chairs to sit in, all sunny smile and gentle motion.

Jane, on the other side, looks like he just saw a ghost.

"What wrong?" she whispers, holding him back as he walks past her.

"She doesn't believe it's Red John," he says, eyes following Rosalind as she busies herself around the kitchen. "But it's him. There's no doubt about it."

"How can you be sure?" she asks, frowning – she _wants_ to believe they finally have a lead after all those years, but she can't allow herself to, not until they have proof.

Plus, _someone_ has to keep a cool head around here.

"He drew a face over her bed," he answers, turning his intense gaze to her. "Not in blood – probably lipstick," he adds quickly when he sees her expression.

" _And you didn't tell her?!_ "

The mere idea of someone sleeping under Red John's mark unknowingly is terrifying. But he shakes his head, looks back at Rosalind.

"She'll be a lot more cooperative if we don't talk about it."

"Jane. She _has_ to know."

" _Not now_."

"Tea is ready!" calls Rosalind before she can protest further.

She bites her lip. It makes her queasy to allow the poor woman to keep sleeping in a room with defiled walls – but he _may_ be right. So she allows him to guide her to a chair, hand in the small of her back, and resolves to keep quiet about it for now.

Hopefully they'll have time to warn her later.

"Please tell us anything you can about Roy Tagliaferro," says Jane, uncharacteristically polite.

"Roy came to my door one day when his car had broken down up the road. He needed to use the telephone, so I made him some lemonade," says Rosalind, pouring a cup of tea.

The woman passes it to Jane, who passes it on to her with barely a glance.

"We got talking about classical music, and – he didn't leave for two days."

"You two were lovers?" she says, passing the second teacup to Jane, who takes it with a slight nod of gratitude.

"More than that," answers Rosalind. "We're soulmates."

" _Soulmates_ ," she repeats, taken aback.

"How do you know?" asks Jane intently, leaning forward.

The woman raises her left hand, palm forward.

"Like this," she says, smiling peacefully. "Before he came, whenever people asked for my name, I raised my hand for them to see. It was the only way for me to meet my soulmate. I can't see the name in my own palm anymore, not since I lost my sight – but others can. When I showed him, he didn't need me to answer. He knew my name, and I knew his."

"Did he say his name first, or did you ask him?"

"He said it first – and it was the right one. I know my soulmate's name, mister Jane. I may be blind, but I'm not naive."

 _Red John has a soulmate._

The idea seems ludicrous somehow. She can't quite believe it – can't believe Red John _deserves_ a soulmate. Especially not one as sweet as Rosalind seems to be.

Jane's features are completely blank, a sure tell of his own shock.

"Uh, how long were you – together?" she asks, trying and failing to keep her voice steady.

"Roy was in my life for about five months. He would come and go as he pleased. He said he was doing business in the area."

"What kind of business?"

"He didn't say."

In the end, they get very little out of Rosalind – a generic description, the first name of a friend, a stuffed elephant and a general timeline of _Roy's_ whereabouts in the area. It's a start, she's aware – but it's a lot less than what she was hoping for when they first came in.

"Well, thank you very much, Miss Harker," she says, getting up.

"Oh, are you leaving already?"

"Yes, we must go back to Sacramento tonight."

" _Sacramento?_ That's quite a ride from here."

"You're right," says Jane. "She's right," he adds, looking at her with raised eyebrows. "Isn't that a waste of time? We'll have to come back here tomorrow anyway."

"No! We have a briefing scheduled with Minelli at nine tonight. We _really_ need to go."

"Come on Lisbon, we should stay. I'm sure hotel rooms for tonight would cost less than another couple Los Angeles-Sacramento back and forth flights. Isn't Minelli always moaning about budget cuts anyway?"

"Or you could stay here. There's a guest room upstairs," says Rosalind, smiling. "I'd be happy to have company tonight. I could play the piano for you, if you want?"

She stares. Jane looks both gleeful and manic, and it scares her a lot more than she's ready to admit.

"Piano! I love piano."

"Roy liked it very much, when I played for him."

" _Jane!_ Can I talk to you for a minute?"

The way she voices it, it's not a request – and the look she sends him hopefully makes it very plain. She watches as he closes himself off, features smoothing over again, then nods sharply.

"Excuse us, we'll be right back," he says to Rosalind.

Then takes off so quickly she's left behind.

"Jane!"

 _Damnit._

She _knows_ it's a ploy – he's aware that she wants to point out how unreasonable and _deranged_ he sounds, so he's deliberately unsettling her, making himself appear perfectly calm while she's out of breath, annoyed and yelling. She knows, but she can't help running after him, afraid that letting him out of her sight in his current mood is a recipe for disaster.

" _Jane!_ Stop right there."

"I'm stopping," he says, standing still on the porch, hands in his pockets and smiling a little. "But you may want to keep your voice down if you want us to have a private conversation."

"I hate you," she mutters, pushing strands of hair out of her face. "We can't stay here!"

"Is this because of the debriefing? Because I don't need to be there. It's just a recap of what we know and more paperwork, right? So _you_ could go back and do – whatever you plan to do, and _I_ can accept her invitation."

"Jane, you _can't_ stay."

"I _want_ to stay!"

" _Stop acting like a three years old!_ "

He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself – not doing a very good job of it, from where she stands.

"Lisbon, _she knows Red John!_ You've seen her, she's lonely and eager to talk about him. Think of everything I could learn if I ask the right questions! And she _offered_ – I didn't push her to do that. I didn't _manipulate her_ into anything!"

"Yeah, and that's my point! What if it's a trap, huh?" she says, nearly yelling again.

He frowns, as if she's suddenly talking gibberish. She rolls her eyes.

"Jane, we know Red John wanted us – wanted _you_ on this case. _We already know_ he's setting a trap for you. What if this is it? What if he's planning to come back here in the middle of the night and get a jump on you? Rosalind there looks sweet and naive, but there must be more to her than meet the eyes – she's _a serial killer's soulmate_ , for God's sake!"

"Oh _please_ ," he says, and now he's the one rolling his eyes. "You didn't really buy that? She's _not_ his soulmate."

"How can you _possibly_ know that?"

"Isn't it obvious?" he says, flashing a smug grin at her.

" _No_ , it's not," she growls. " _Explain_."

"Easy – he tricked her," he says, shrugging. "You heard what she said, she shows her palm to everyone asking for her name. People around here must know about that, he must have heard. So he went to her place, already knowing who she was, and pretended to be her soulmate."

" _Why_ would he do that?"

"Because she's part of a trail of breadcrumbs for us to find. _Think_ , Lisbon – what are the odds that Red John became the lover of a blind woman _by chance?_ What are the odds that he conveniently dropped a business card _where she could find it?_ He never leaves anything behind, never makes mistakes. This was deliberate!"

"Okay, let's say you're right – how did he know the name of Rosalind's soulmate?"

"Just a trick."

" _How?_ "

" _I don't know!_ She must have told it to someone at some point, _everybody_ does."

" _I_ don't!"

 _It's not even a lie – not really. The ones who know guessed, I didn't tell them first. Tommy doesn't count._

– and then –

 _Crap. That doesn't mean he's right!  
_

"Yes, and you're the only one who's neurotic enough to make a – a _big secret_ out of it, which proves my point!"

He's flustered now, voice rough and red-faced, frustrated _and frustrating_ beyond belief – and that's the only reason she doesn't put her palm under his nose right then and there. He's just trying to get the last word, to derail her train of thought with insults. So she tightens her hand in a fist instead, less out of habit and more to stifle a desire to punch him.

"Come on Lisbon, _you know_ I'm right. 'Roy Tagliaferro' is an alias, and that business card was bogus. He _knew_ we would track down his mail box when he placed that sky-writing order. He _wanted_ us to find Rosalind, wanted _her_ to tell us about his friend. I know we're safe tonight because he's leading us forward with a set of footprints, and the trail doesn't end up here."

"So where is it supposed to lead us, huh?"

"Not sure yet."

She crosses her arms on her chest. There's a chill in the summer breeze raising goosebumps on her skin.

"You're reaching," she says. "When we first came here, you nearly jumped her to get a description of Red John. Now you're telling me you knew it was a ploy all along? I don't believe that. Rosalind could still be a threat – and besides, you know what? I think the real problem is you can't wrap your head around the fact Red John may not be the complete monster you want him to be – that he's _human_ , someone with a soulmate _just like you_ , and that messes up with your plans of revenge."

"It _doesn't_ ," interrupts Jane, eyes focused and intense, so widened she can see the white shining all around his pupils. "It doesn't change a thing. And even if you were right – _and I don't say you are_ – it doesn't mean I'm wrong about this. So what are you gonna do? Because _I_ – I'm staying here, Lisbon. You can go back to Sacramento, but I'm not moving until Rosalind tells me everything she can about Red John."

They stay in silence for a while, each of them staring at the other, making very plain where they stand. And as usual, she relents first.

"Fine. _Fine!_ But I'm staying with you, and we are _not_ sleeping in this house. Go, I'll just – book us rooms somewhere."

He nods once, goes back in without a word, and she stays on the porch to make her phone calls.

"Boss," she says. "We have a lead."

"I'm listening," says Minelli, and his gruff, no-nonsense, affectionate voice is a welcome respite from the chaos and insanity following Jane around.

So she tells him everything they got from their interview with Rosalind – and when she's done talking, he sighs.

"Okay. Now, why are you telling me this over the phone instead of in person, at the briefing tonight, _like you were supposed to?_ And don't tell me you wanted to give me a heads-up, we both know that's a lie. What did Jane do?"

She doesn't know if she wants to laugh or cry. What is her life turning into?

"He wants to stay here," she says instead. "Frankly I don't think it's a good idea, it could be a trap. But Rosalind invited him to stay, and he won't move as long as he thinks he can get more information about Red John. You know how he is.

"So – what? You want to stay there with him?"

"That's the plan, yes. Boss, he's not armed. If Rosalind is an accomplice, if Red John sneaks in there while he's distracted – "

"Yes – she _is_ his soulmate, isn't she?"

"That's what she said. Jane doesn't believe it, but I'm not so sure. And we've seen what couples of soulmates could do together last year in Napa."

"Alright, _alright_. No need to explain further, Mother Teresa. Take a picture of the elephant and that drawing on the wall, send them to me. I'll lead the briefing tonight."

"Thanks Boss," she smiles, relieved.

"Don't _thank_ me. Make sure you're _both_ safe."

"Will do."

When she gets back inside, neither Jane nor Rosalind are in sight – her heart misses a beat until she hears both of their voices talking softly in a room further down the corridor. She closes her eyes, releases her breath. Slowly removes her hand from her gun.

 _You really need to calm down before you cause an accident._

First she goes back to the living room, takes pictures of the elephant and sends them to Minelli. Then, with an internal cringe, she climbs up the stairs – careful not to walk on creaky floorboards, because she didn't exactly get _permission_ to do this – until she reaches what looks like the main bedroom.

What _proves_ to be the main bedroom when she sees the lipstick drawing on the wall.

She shudders.

She's been on numerous Red John crime scenes now – she's seen that mark on countless walls, in pictures, in person, and sometimes even in her nightmares. The smell of spilled blood, rotting meat with an iron tinge, she'll never get out of her head as long as she lives.

But no mark drawn in blood makes her as uneasy as this one.

None of them should ever look so – _harmless_.

Taking a deep breath, she crosses over the threshold and walks to the bed, holding her phone up. A moment later, the picture is safely sent to her boss and she can get out of there.

As quickly as she can.

Soft piano rises from a room on the other side of the house. She follows the music, keeping an ear out for anything unusual, but no heat in her left hand goes a long way in reassuring her – and she's perfectly calm, perfectly in control when she reaches Rosalind's music room.

Leaning on the wooden edge in the doorway, she watches them in silence for a while – Rosalind, playing with eyes closed and a light curve of lips, and Jane, listening with a frightening focus, a pained expression on his face. He's grieving, she realises. Grieving in the only way he knows, tying himself in emotional knots and thinking of murder, the further away from letting go she could ever think of.

And as much as she'd like to do something to help, there's nothing more that comes to mind. So when she's certain no one is lying in wait to get a jump on them, she leaves Jane to it and settles in a chair nearby with her laptop and case folders.

There's work to do.

* * *

The hotel Lisbon found them is clean and cheap, but the bed is small, with a hard mattress and scratchy sheets, and the television is broken. It's a good thing he didn't expect to sleep tonight – they're so close to Red John he can nearly _smell_ him. Sleeping or even relaxing in those circumstances would be foolish, dangerous even if he loses focus.

It still takes him eight hours to come up with an answer.

Sunrise finds him sitting on the pavement outside, back against the only tree in sight of the parking lot, pondering his limited options.

 _I need a shill._

He could, of course, trick Lisbon into going back to Sacramento alone. That would free the way nicely for him to go after Red John on his own and, hopefully, kill him before he gets killed. But that would mean go after him without back-up – alone against two dangerous men.

Those aren't good odds.

The other option, of course, would be to ask Lisbon to play a part in his scheme, and hope she goes along with it. It would be so easy, too – he knows exactly what to do, how to lure Hardy and reel him in like a fish, get him to bring them to Red John. He's just not quite sure he can trust her around when comes the time to end this.

On the other hand, with Lisbon by his side, they _will_ get Red John – even if he gets killed, _she_ has the training to survive and end this.

One way or another, at the end of the day, it'll be done. He just has to think hard about _how_ he wants it to end.

"Hey Jane."

And there she is, with bright, curious eyes and a warm smile.

" 'Morning, Lisbon. Sleep well?"

She sits beside him on the pavement, knees up against her chest like a young girl.

"About as well as you, I expect," she answers with a pointed look. "Unless _you_ were the jerk snoring loud enough to cover the sounds of traffic outside. Hm?"

"I don't snore."

She grins lightly, and he feels the corner of his lips quirk up of their own volition.

 _There was never really any decision to make_.

"I know who Red John's friend is."

"That 'Dumar' guy Rosalind was talking about?"

"Dumar Tanner. Yes."

She frowns.

"Tanner, as in Orval Tanner?"

"Orval had a young son named Dumar when he was sent to prison. The kid ended up in the system. It's in the files."

"So we're looking for Tanner's son."

"No. We already know who he is."

She waits about two seconds.

" _Well?_ "

"Sheriff Hardy."

" _What?_ Jane, that's ridiculous. He's law enforcement!"

"Think about it, Lisbon – heavy smoker trying to quit, living near the Plaskett's... How many coincidences is it gonna take? He had opportunity, and as Red John's friend, he had means too. How much do you wanna bet we'll find no trace of any 'Ted Hardy' in the records before he moved to San Angelo?"

"But that makes no sense, wouldn't Orval Tanner be angry for his incarceration? Why would his son work with Red John instead of against him?"

He shakes his head, raises a hand to cover his eyes – the sun is getting hot.

"Red John probably has an addictive personality, like a – a cult leader, or something. Hardy must have idolised him as a kid, and Red John took advantage of that when his father was arrested."

"And now Hardy's right in the middle of the investigation, leading the search for Maya – oh _God_."

She looks a little green around the gills, and he wonders distractedly if she had coffee already.

"I _hate it_ when cops turn killers."

"Don't we all."

"So what's your plan?"

"What plan?"

She snorts.

"You always have a plan. You wouldn't share this information with me if you didn't."

He flashes a grin in her direction – she's starting to know him a little too well, it seems.

"I need you as back-up."

"You _always_ need me as back-up, even when you think you don't," she says, rolling her eyes.

"This time it's different. I need you to be part of the con."

She raises her eyebrows, and he can feel the interest radiating off her in waves.

"You want us to be partners."

"In effect. Yes."

"You're right, that's different."

"Do you want to hear about my plan or not?"

"Absolutely, go ahead."

"Hardy needs to feel he's in control of the situation. He can't overpower both of us, but if we split, he can easily overpower _me_. If we use me as bait – "

"I'm not leaving you alone with a killer, Jane!"

"You wouldn't, that's just what we want him to _think_. You'd be following us, ready to tip the scales as soon as he leads us to Red John."

She bites her lip.

"How do we do that?"

"We need to fake an argument, something that would make you leave me behind with him."

"I don't know. I can't imagine myself doing that."

"Come on, that's the easy part," he grins. "We argue all the time. I'm sure there's a loads of things you're just dying to yell at me. Right now even."

" _Yes_ , because you're reckless and irresponsible with your own life, and that makes it very hard _not_ to yell at you!"

"See? We can use that. Remember what Rosalind said about Red John? She said he smelled like pine, nails and earth. What does that remind you of?"

She frowns, thinks about it – he can nearly see the cogs turning in her brain.

"A coffin? The earth could be from digging a grave. Are we looking for a cemetery? But no, that makes no sense, Red John never buries his victims."

"Close, but no cigar," he smiles. "You're on the right track though – think larger scale."

Her eyebrows are all scrunched up in concentration, and he can see the exact moment she catches on when her eyes widen and her mouth grows slack.

"He was building _a prison!_ For Maya? But that was over five months ago! Why didn't he take her then? He wasn't trying to cover his tracks, you said he _wanted us_ to find Rosalind."

"I have no idea," he admits. "But building a prison, that takes both time and supplies – "

"Supplies you have to buy somewhere," she finishes. "That leaves a trail. Van Pelt could probably reverse-engineer the address if we look into large purchases of building supplies in the last year, and cross-check it with – "

" _Meh_. Too long. I bet if we ask Hardy, he'd probably give us a few addresses where there was significant renovation done in the last year."

"You think?"

"If he's following Red John's orders, yes. Bread crumbs, remember? I'm meant to find the place."

She nods, gets up.

"We should call Hardy, get him to meet us at Rosalind's. She could identify him for us, just in case you're wrong."

"Wouldn't that endanger her?" he asks, taken aback.

It's not in her habit to take that kind of risk. But she grins.

"Not if he doesn't see her. You have a standing invitation there, don't you? Let's bring her a thank-you gift for yesterday and explain the situation, see if she's willing to help us. If she is, I'll call Hardy from her place, put him on speaker. If she doesn't want to help, I'll call outside, no harm done."

"How devious of you," he smirks.

She blushes lightly, looking very pleased with herself.

 _As she should._

"Come on, let's check out and head up there."

Rosalind appears delighted to welcome them in her home again, and agrees to help if they promise to come back and visit sometime. It's an easy promise to make – he knows Lisbon fully intends to tell her about the mark on her wall, and he enjoys her childish, naive nature. To an extend – that is, as long as he tries not to picture her in intimate setting with the killer of his wife and child.

She certainly is a marvellous pianist, if anything else.

"Yes, that's Dumar," she says once Hardy hangs up. "Did he ever quit smoking?"

"He, uh – he uses nicotine gum now," answers Lisbon, with a glance toward him.

"That's good," smiles Rosalind, a serene expression on her regular features. "Smoking is so bad for the health. I'm about to make tea, would you like some?"

"We have to leave soon, I'm sorry," he says. "Next time."

Rosalind nods and disappears in the kitchen. Lisbon sighs and rubs her forehead.

"What if I mess up and it fails?" she asks quietly.

"It won't fail."

"How do you know?"

"I don't. But I have faith in you."

She holds his gaze a few seconds, then walks to the window, peers outside.

"He said fifteen minutes. He'll be there soon, don't be impatient."

"I didn't say anything," she answers, a twinge of annoyance in her voice.

He grins.

"We need a code word," he says. "Something that means it's time to pick that fight."

" 'Red John'?"

"Something less conspicuous."

" 'Let's go', then. The whole plan hinges on you being a hothead. If you try to rush things up – "

"Then you can try and slow me down, and we'll have a go at it. Brilliant, Lisbon."

"You did say it was the easy part," she mutters. "Just – promise me to be careful, alright?"

"I'm always careful."

The glare she shoots him makes it plain she's not buying it. But 'being careful' doesn't mean anything right now, not when they're so close.

"Don't forget to wait until Red John is there," he stresses. "It'll all be for nothing if we don't get him."

"What if Rosalind really is his soulmate and warned him?" she asks instead.

"She's _not_ his soulmate," he sighs. "Stop being so _jittery_."

She glares again, but her phone rings before she can come up with a retort.

"Lisbon. Yeah? Crap, the line is – wait a minute, Van Pelt, I need to get outside."

The door bangs lightly behind her, and he takes her place by the window. He watches her as she walks to the road and stops near her car, nodding once or twice, engrossed in her conversation.

Then she looks surprised.

A good surprise, he hopes. They cannot afford any more setbacks.

Hardy's car turns the corner and stops in the alley just as she hangs up, and he takes a deep breath, pushes the door open.

 _Show time._

* * *

She parks her SUV near Hardy's car, and approaches the wooden cabin as quickly and silently as she can. Jane is already inside, alone with at least one criminal guilty of kidnapping and illegal surveillance, and for the first time she fully understands the meaning of Cho's words – if she didn't literally have an alarm bell embedded in her hand, she has no idea how she'd ever be able to do this.

For now, no sign of heat.

 _Good._

They left the door ajar. Gun in hand, she slips in as quietly as possible – one footstep after the other, lightly testing the wooden floor for creaks that would reveal her position, listening for signs of human presence. The first room is empty, except for a pile of musty newspapers in a corner. An open door a few feet ahead lets in dust and sunlight through the cracks of a boarded window on the farthest wall.

" _She's alive!_ "

A small bubble of relief makes her head swim and she takes support on the wall, slightly dizzy. The muffled voice is unmistakably Jane's.

 _If only I could figure out where it's coming from._

The second room has an empty library against a wall, and three doors. The left one is closed, but those on the right are opened – one slightly ajar, the other lacking a door entirely. Frowning, she tries turning the doorknob on the closed door, until a loud clicking sound somewhere on her right makes her stop.

There's heat in her palm.

There's heat in her palm, and she still has no idea where Jane is.

 _Damnit. That clicking noise was someone loading a shotgun, I'm sure of it._

Letting go of the doorknob, she tiptoes to the right, slides the ajar door open.

 _A pantry. Crap_.

The heat in her hand comes and goes in waves, sometimes painful, sometimes barely a tickle, and she could scream in frustration.

Hardy beats her to it.

" _Red John – is_ not _– using me!_ "

The good news is, that yell came from somewhere beyond the second door on her right. When she peeks through the opening, there's no missing the open latch and stairs sinking in the ground. They're in the basement.

She found them.

She found them, and she can finally release the breath she didn't know she was holding.

The bad news is, the sound of Hardy's voice ranks right at the top of her 'crazy' chart. That man is _unstable_ , armed and dangerous. And Jane – an unarmed civilian, her colleague, her friend, _her soulmate_ – is trapped with him.

In a basement.

At gunpoint.

 _That's not good_.

Stifling the urge to get him out of there as quickly as possible, she crouches out of sight, listening, _waiting_. Waiting for Red John to show up, for the last thread of Hardy's sanity to snap, for Jane to call for help – whichever comes first.

She's not picky.

She can hear Hardy clearly now, hear him raving about love and cages and happiness, all twisted up in a single string of madness, the kind that makes her feel sick inside.

"And what did you have to give him in exchange?" asks Jane, and suddenly the heat in her hand flares up again.

It abates, but she's distracted from Hardy's monologue now, just enough to hear a light creak somewhere on her left.

She freezes.

 _There's someone else in here._

It could be just rats. But something, experience or intuition perhaps, tells her – no. It was too heavy, too deliberate to be a rat, or any other animal for that matter. And here she is, without backup, a sitting duck between the basement and too many doors on her left.

Which way to go? Down the stairs to get the jump on Hardy, hoping to overpower him and perhaps use him as hostage, or back through the house to try and smoke out whomever – _probably Red John_ , whispers her mind – is watching her, leaving Jane alone with an armed madman?

Then she hears a faint whistling sound in the distance – _is that a siren?_ – and her hand flares up in agony. And there isn't any choice at all because in this situation, facing that sort of crisis, she'll pick saving Jane's life over any other option.

Every.

Single.

Time.

"Hardy, put the gun down," she says, trying to keep her voice steady against the throbbing onslaught of pain in her palm.

* * *

It ends, of course, in disaster.

"You should have waited. We agreed on that."

"Hardy was about to kill you."

"You don't know that."

"Yes I _do!_ "

"Well you – you should have let him. Then he would have led you straight to Red John!"

 _"You'd be dead!_ "

" _But you would have Red John!_ "

She looks upset – tired, dishevelled and on the verge of tears.

He doesn't care.

"I don't think you mean what you say," she says, and he can see the efforts she makes to stay calm. "I think you'd choose life."

"Well you think wrong."

She looks like she's been slapped now.

"No. No, _you_ think wrong. Can't you see there's people who care about you, who need you? You're being selfish and childish and I want you to stop it!"

He nearly snorts, stops looking at her – he doesn't need _her_ pain.

Has enough of his own.

"I wish that I could, but uh, you know, some things you just can't fix," he says, fiddling with his wedding ring.

There's a sharp intake of breath just over his head.

"Needn't be angry, it's just the way of the world," he says, raising his eyes on her again.

"Jane – "

She comes closer, hand reaching for him. He flinches before he can stop himself, and she steps back as if burned.

"We still have Hardy," she says, voice unsteady. "He's gonna talk, Jane, I swear to God. We'll _make him_ talk. He'll give us Red John."

"Right. We have Hardy. Yes."

 _I don't care._

"And we saved a life," she adds.

He hates the pity he sees in her eyes.

"Yes, we did. We – we did. Hurray for us."

The way he stretches his lips in a parody of a smile must be truly terrible, because she seems to be on the verge of tears again. He looks down.

 _Just go away, Lisbon._

And she must have heard the unsaid thought somehow because when he looks up again, she's gone.

He gets up from the threadbare couch, flitters around the room, trying to take everything in. They took the cup lingering on the desk, but he knows they'll find neither DNA nor prints, be they lips or fingertips. Red John is too cautious – and the liquid level was too high. He didn't even take a sip.

The teacup he recognised though – and it throws him into a loop somewhat. He's seen identical ones just a few hours ago, at Rosalind's. Did she ever notice she was missing one? Or did Red John go and buy an identical one, just to mess with his head? Those cups looked like antiques. Hard to find, even for a man with resources. The alternative however, that he kept it as a souvenir of Rosalind – _he didn't kill her, why would he need a souvenir?_ – is so at odds with everything he knows about the man that he finds it impossible to consider seriously.

Moreover, _he doesn't want to_.

Perhaps there was some truth in what Lisbon told him the day before.

 _I don't care._

The room suddenly seems a lot more dusty, irritating his nose and lungs, and it feels as if the walls are about to fall on him. Deep breaths to calm himself only serves to make him sneeze, so he walks out slowly, hands in his pockets.

He feels surrounded by an army of ants. They're crawling everywhere – police officers dusting furniture and door-frames, tech guys in white suits running around looking harried, picking up evidence to bring back to Sacramento. Cho and Rigsby are leaving in an SUV. Lisbon is over to the right, talking to Maya, and Hardy is strapped and handcuffed to a stretcher on his left, still unconscious.

Then his palm starts burning.

It's subtle at first, a light prickle against his skin, just enough to catch his attention, not enough for him to understand what it means – not right away, at least. But it grows quickly, searing its way through the nerves in his left hand, calling forth a wave of panic that threatens to overcome him.

 _Burning!_

A small part of him notices Hardy's arm moving – another part of him notices the shotgun left alone at the back of the evidence wagon. The larger part of him is stumped in disbelief – because _it can't be,_ she saw his hand and _didn't say anything,_ it's just _not possible,_ it's –

– _burningburningburningburning_ –

Then Hardy jumps from his stretcher and shoots a police officer, takes aim at Lisbon –

– _BURNINGBURNINGBURNINGBURNING_ –

– and everything is over in the blink of an eye.

The pain in his hand abates.

He drops the shotgun in disgust, the end still smoking. Lisbon looks stricken, terrified, _alive_ – and Hardy is down, gurgling blood everywhere. He crouches near the man, tries to stop the blood flow with his bare hands, but then Hardy taunts him a last time and stops breathing, and it's over.

 _It's over._

His first thought is for the lead slipping between his fingers, the lead he lost _all by himself_ – anger and helplessness drive his fingernails into the skin of his palms, those treacherous things that grabbed the nearest gun on their own and _killed off his only lead to Red John_.

Then the weight of his act settles on his shoulders, and he feels sick.

 _I killed a man._

The worst isn't that he killed _Hardy_ – the man was guilty of kidnapping and torturing a young girl, and probably a thousand other things. He feels no guilt for ending _that_ life.

No, the worst is _how easy_ it was. How easy to take aim and shoot. Press the trigger, bang, and gone.

 _Over._

"Jane. Get up."

Lisbon's voice is soft, and the hand she slides down his back is even softer. There's an earthquake inside him threatening to escape through his mouth, so he closes it tight as he gets back up on quivering limbs. Paramedics pick up Hardy's body, bring him back to the stretcher from which he escaped, and spread a sheet over the corpse as he watches in silence, unmoving.

She doesn't stop stroking his back.

"Your hands are full of blood," she says. "Let's get you a wash cloth, huh?"

Sucking in a breath, he looks at her. She looks back, just a few seconds – then breaks eye contact and leaves his side a couple of minutes. Just long enough to grab a clean cloth in the ambulance and call around for a bottle of water, before coming back to his side.

He can't look away from her now.

 _I killed a man to save you._

Relief at seeing her alive after being so close to death comes quick and strong, washes over him like a tidal wave and takes the dread away.

Just long enough to replace it with guilt.

She takes his right hand, gently wipes the caked blood inside until the skin is clean. Then she breathes in deeply, as if to brace herself, and does the same with his left. The name – _her name_ – shimmering silver and bright and _alive_ on his palm is taunting him.

Without a word, he reaches to her with unsteady hands, cradles her head against his chest. She's stressed, tightly wound against him, and it's like hugging a piece of wood – until she releases the breath she took earlier and relaxes, her arms snaking around him, holding, _steadying_ him.

And he didn't realise he was still shivering until her warmth engulfs his midsection, gently seeping under his skin, making its way all over his body and crumbling walls in his mind.

His practised fingers find the thundering pulse on her neck, and he marvels as how simple, how _easy_ it is to get proof of life.

As easy as pulling the trigger on his only lead to Red John.

As easy as killing a man to save _his_ –

– save _Lisbon_.

 _Why couldn't I save them the same way?_

* * *

They don't talk about it.

One quick, intense shared look when they release each other from their life-affirming grip, and it's over.

The rest of the night passes in a blur – depositions and forms, a short visit to the hospital with Maya, more forms. Jane follows her like a silent shadow, not quite hovering but unwilling to let her out of his sight, until morning comes and they return the girl to her family – then one second of distraction and he disappears.

She finds him later in the Plaskett's garden, basking in the sun – eyes closed and smiling lightly, half an orange in his right hand.

He tears a piece off and eats it just as she reaches him, then pulls another slice, holds it up to her. Never looking at her, never losing his smile.

It's a real one though.

"Hey," she says, taking the piece of fruit.

"Hey," he greets back, glancing her way.

They stay silent for a few minutes. He eats what's left of his orange, stealing a few looks now and then, and she waits, watching as the tension in his shoulders slowly melts away.

"We'll have to go back soon. Cho and Rigsby are waiting for us – our flight leaves in just under two hours."

"I know. Are you going to eat that?"

She pops the piece of fruit in her mouth. The orange juice on her tongue is unbearably sweet.

"Good, huh?" he asks, his smile reaching up to his eyes.

 _Yes. Yes, it is._

She smiles back and nods, once. He grins.

"Nothing like sunlight to sweeten fruits and brighten the mood. It's a beautiful day, Lisbon. Are you sure you want to spend it in an airport? We could go – I don't know, take a walk somewhere. Near water perhaps. Or – how about a trek in the woods?"

She rolls her eyes.

" _What_ woods? Besides, it's summer – the light won't reach between the leaves. Come on. The sooner we're done here, the sooner we get back home. There may even be enough sunlight left for you to soak up on your couch while I deal with all the extra work required to close off this case."

Her answer seems to delight him for some reason.

"Let's go, then," he says, fingers brushing against the small of her back.

They fall side by side, shoulders nearly touching as they walk back to the road.

"Thank you," she says, just before they reach the SUV. "For – you know. Saving my life."

"Anytime," he answers quietly, shoulder bumping against hers.

They're not yet back to normal.

They will be, though.

 _Soon._

Then the brooding starts again. As soon as they set foot in the bullpen, he sits down with his files, reading them over and over – scribbling in a notebook as the sunset colours the whole place in red shades, until he falls asleep sitting, head on his arms, arms on his desk. She's about to walk to him, convince him to spend the night in a real bed, when a tired, clumsy movement of her elbow topples her planner to the ground. And as she picks it up, a small piece of paper falls off from one of the last pages, fluttering to the ground.

She stops.

 _Jeremy Hale_ , it says, taunting her, stark letters on blinding white background.

 _Crap. Won't this day ever end?_

She could ignore it. She could just put it back at the end of her planner where it used to be, and wait for another day. A day where she feels less tired, less strained, less –

But she knows even if she waits, that day won't come. In her line of work, downtime doesn't really exist – it's like running on a train track, hoping to avoid oncoming traffic. Sometimes you only hear it in the distance, never seeing the shadow of a wagon until the lights are upon you. Sometimes they all come at once, and jumping from one track to the other becomes an acrobat's feat.

Only one thing is sure – there's _always_ a new train coming.

And the truth is, with Jane around, it makes them even more likely to come at her team full speed.

 _That's uncharitable_.

She glances at him guiltily – but there's no denying the small, nasty, _resentful_ part of her. The part she confessed to a priest every week when she was a girl, and now tries to bury deep under still waters. The part that is glad – that is _happy_ , even – to _know_ he felt his palm burning. That he _finally knows_ what his carelessness makes her go through nearly every week, every time he puts himself in danger.

Not that she expects him to act differently about it – not right away, at least. But he was _scared_ , last night. And the way his heartbeat only started to calm down when his fingers found the pulse on her neck makes her think there's hope now.

At little.

Perhaps.

 _As with all things, it's a process._

And that's what makes her pick up the wayward piece of paper, put her bag down, and pull her phone out of her pocket.

She waits as it rings three, four, five times – and is about to hang up when someone answers.

"Yeah?" says the annoyed voice of her niece.

 _Uh oh, someone's becoming a teenager._

"Hello Annabeth!" she smiles.

" _Aunt Reese!_ "

The excited screech makes her laugh, even if it splits her eardrums. Not so much of a teen after all.

 _That's a relief._

"Are you calling to say you're coming up here in three weeks?"

"In three weeks? What do you mean?"

"For Uncle Stan's wedding!"

 _Crap. How could I forget that?_

 _Too much work_ is the answer, she knows. It doesn't make it easier.

"You'll be there, right? You _have_ to be there!"

"I'm sorry, Annabeth. I'll try, but with all the bad guys around, I can't guarantee it. But I'll try hard, okay? I promise."

"Okay. Fine."

 _Whatever_ , would add Tommy, and it breaks her heart a little.

"Is your father around?"

"Yeah, he's here. You wanna talk to him?"

"Please."

"Okay."

The girl sounds subdued and upset, a far cry from her usual attitude, and _she hates it_.

"Annabeth?"

"Yeah?"

"You know you can always talk to me when you need to, right? I'm not always around, but you can call me any time."

"Yeah, I know that. See ya, Aunt Reese. Love you!"

"Love you too!"

" _Daaaaaaaaad? Aunt Reese on the phooooooooone!_ "

She bites her lip as she waits, makes her way to the couch. Jane is still sleeping – from where she sits, she can see his blonde curls shimmering softly in the dying light, and the sight of him strengthens her resolve. They aren't perfect – both of them are messy and broken in their own way. But they're strong together, stronger than apart. They proved it just yesterday – and the bond they have, she wouldn't trade for the world.

Tommy deserves that too.

Deserves the chance to find it, if he can.

"Yeah?" says her brother, and she smiles at how similar to his daughter he sounds.

 _Most likely it's the other way around._

"Hey Tommy," she answers. "How are you doing?"

"I'm fine! How's work?"

"It's okay. We closed a case today," she answers.

 _No way_ is she going to tell him she nearly died.

"How's _your_ work?" she asks instead.

"Eh. Just peachy. What's going on, why are you calling?"

"Can't I call to get news from my family?"

"You _can_. But you usually don't. So what's up, sis?"

The familiar twinge of guilt pinches at her heart again.

"Listen Tommy, I, uh. Met someone on a case a few months ago, and – "

"Okay, Reese, wait a minute. Are you calling to say you're getting married?"

" _What?_ No! _How the Hell_ did you jump to that conclusion?!"

"You just said you met someone!"

" _No!_ Not like that. _God_."

She takes a deep breath, tries again.

"I mean – I _saw_ someone we both know. He, uh, asked about you, wanted to know how you've been. I said I'd pass his message along."

"Okaaaay. So, who is it?"

"Jeremy Hale."

Tommy sucks in a breath, and she cringes, waiting for the explosion.

It doesn't come.

"Tommy? You still there?"

"Yeah – yeah, it's – I'm fine, Reese. What did he want?"

Her brother's voice is a study in neutrality. It's so unlike him, she can't help feeling a thousand times the worry she would if he was yelling.

"He, uh, wanted to know about you, mostly."

"Mostly?"

"I told him you were fine, and anything else was none of his business."

He makes a joyless and anxious sound, and it takes her a few seconds to realise it's a chuckle.

"I bet you chew his head off, huh?"

"I kinda did, yeah."

There's an awkward silence at the end of the line. She bites her lip again.

 _I should have done that in person, not on the phone._

"He, uh, left me his phone number for you, if you want it. _Only_ if you want it," she adds. "He said he wanted to make amends and – uh, be friends."

He snorts.

"Did he _really_ expect me to fall for that? _Christ!_ No! No way, Reese, I'm not calling that – _that_ – I'm _not_ calling him back!"

"Then it's fine, Tommy. You don't have to."

"No way in _Hell_ ," he repeats quietly, voice breaking on the last word.

She can hear him breathing heavily on the other end of the line, and once again kicks herself for not being there, beside him.

"Listen, do you want me to call Stan? Or maybe I could – "

" _No_. What for?" he interrupts.

"I don't want you to be alone."

"I'm _fine_ , Reese. Seriously, what do you take me for? Anyway, I gotta go. I'll call you back, okay? I just – I gotta go."

He hangs up before she can place another word.

The silence in her office suddenly feels stifling. She gets up, rubbing her forehead a few times before picking up her bag again – the headache isn't going anywhere.

 _I'll call Stan tomorrow, tell him to check up on Tommy._

As much as she wants to jump on the next airplane and coddle him like when he was a kid, there's nothing more she can do. And she wouldn't want someone to butt in her grief if she was in his place. Even a well-intended family member. _Especially_ a well-intended family member. Tommy's a grown man, and she's miles away from where he lives – she needs to learn to let go, let him deal with this on his own.

At least that's what she tells herself to try and fend off the guilt.

It doesn't work too well.

Deep in thoughts, she nearly passes Jane before a glint of light at the corner of her eye catches her attention – moonlight reflected on his wedding ring, left hand sprawled face down on his desk, just like the rest of him. She sighs.

"Jane," she whispers, shaking his shoulder lightly. "Wake up."

"Whatizzit?" he says, only half-awake. "Iznot mornin' yet," he adds in a yawn. "We got a case?"

"No. But you're going to get a crick in your neck if you keep sleeping on your desk," she chuckles. "Move to the couch, at least."

"Oh. Sure, I can do that."

He gets up on unsteady feet, walks three steps, lets himself fall face down on the couch. Then moans. She winces, then chuckles softly.

"You're leaving?" he asks, turning to the side, tucking his hands between his knees.

"Yeah, I'm going home."

"Oh. Okay. See you tomorrow?"

There's a wistful note in his voice she isn't sure she wants to linger on.

"Of course. Where would I be?"

He smiles, closes his eyes.

"G'night, Lisbon," he says, yawning again.

"Good night, Jane," she says, stifling a yawn of her own.

The twenty minutes drive back home seems longer than usual, though there isn't any traffic at this time of day. Perhaps because, emotionally drained, she has trouble keeping her eyes open. As she parks in the driveway and climbs up the stairs, there's only one thought left in her mind – that of a long, nice bath, and _sleep_.

In the afternoon, the next day, Stan calls and tells her Tommy started drinking again.

* * *

 **If everything goes according to plan, next chapter will be out on May 26. If not, early June at the latest.  
**

Have to admit I was a little alarmed by the number of people thinking I had abandoned this story last time, so just know that I'm very committed to seeing it to its end. In fact, I'm so committed that when I tried to take a break to write something else, the only thing I could think of was coming back to it. So it may take a while, but my plan goes 'till Blue Bird and I can promise you we'll get there eventually.

Thank you so much for your support! It means so much to me.


	7. Part 5

_**Disclaimer:**_ _ **As you probably guessed by now, this show and its characters aren't mine.**_

 **A/N:** Happy TM anniversary to me! A year ago today, I sat down in early evening to watch the Pilot episode for the first time. Had no idea back then just how completely this show would take over my life, and don't regret a single minute of it. =)  
Also, as of this chapter 'Kindred' has officially become the longest story I've ever published, and we hit the 3-digits reviews with the last one (six chapters, over a hundred reviews?! _wow_ ). So many things to celebrate! **Thank you** for making this happen.

 **Warnings:** Struggling with the emotional fallouts of taking a human life, post-trauma common reactions including but not limited to flash-backs, dissociation, anger outbursts, mood swings and unhealthy feeding behaviour, and (obviously) overly emotional characters. If any of this triggers you, please stay safe.

 **Spoilers:** Some dialogues are taken directly from 2.01 "Redemption". Allusion to information given in 7.07 "Little Yellow House". Spoiler in the author's note at the end of the chapter for 2.03 "Red Badge".

* * *

 **Kindred**  
 **Part 5**

Shooting Hardy, in a sense, brings his life to a screeching halt.

He still feels no guilt for killing the man. It's doubtful he ever will – there was no other choice, and Hardy was rotten to the core. His only regret is that they couldn't get anything about Red John out of him.

But taking _a life_ changed him in ways he's still trying to understand, and the most obvious thing is –

– the numbness.

The numbness is gone.

It's as if the bullet he shot ricochet and burst through a protective layer encasing him body and mind – one he wasn't even aware of until its disappearance, now giving him a sharp, sour taste of reality. The wind feels fresher, the concrete under his feet claps harder, the smell of pollution in the city permeates all open spaces. Everything feels _more real_ somehow, there's no possible escape – and he's reminded of those first few days of stimuli hypersensitivity after leaving the hospital, except it isn't the same, not really.

Leaving the hospital he was anxious, irritated, afraid of everything – feeling out of place in his usual haunts, out of place in his own life. And granted, sometime he _does_ feel bad, crushed under a pervasive, visceral sense of dread, one that makes him sick to his stomach. One that mingles closely with hate – hate for Hardy and Red John and himself and his past foolishness, all different targets jumbled together in the same package of resolve and oaths of revenge renewed.

But most of the time now he feels nearly euphoric, _in control_ , the entire world within reach of his fingertips – for him to save, or crush if he feels like it.

 _One step closer to ending this._

There's some amount of guilt there because it feels _good_ , and _terrible_ at the same time, and it's _addictive_ – the _power_ is addictive – and this is the rush Red John keeps coming back to. It has to be, otherwise there wouldn't be any point to him killing, wouldn't it? Murder is Red John's only weakness, one he may now be sharing too – and some nasty part of his brain taunts him relentlessly about it, only shutting up when he reminds himself that this time at least, he didn't kill because he _wanted_ to.

He killed to save a life.

He killed to save _Lisbon_.

Which makes him feels good again, _justified_ , until the cycle starts anew and he has to find other ways to keep himself distracted.

"Hey," he says, knocking on the door sill. "You busy?"

She peers up at him from under dark bangs. The new haircut should be flattering her eyes – instead it attracts attention to the purple smudges badly covered below her eyelids, the traces of tiredness, irritation and quiet despair lingering on her features.

"Filling forms," she answers. "What's up?"

"New case just came in. Wanted to give you the heads up."

And check up on her, but he's not admitting to _that_.

"Van Pelt?"

"Still on the phone. She'll be here in a minute to tell you the same thing."

She groans, gets up. He frowns. She lost weight – weight she couldn't afford to lose. Her clothes are hanging on her thin frame, and her skin has an unhealthy glow.

"Cho and I could take care of it," he offers, but she chuckles.

"And what, I stay here with budget reports while you go and have a field day? _Please_."

He raises his hands, smiling lightly. Ignores – _but doesn't miss_ – the slight hesitation when she catches sight of his left palm. Then she sighs.

"Come on, let's do this. Nice, quick and easy, alright?"

"Nice, quick and easy," he repeats, grinning.

She looks awful, and it worries him.

He's used to drowning himself in schemes to forget pain, guilt, and memories – he _isn't_ used to find Lisbon right by his side, struggling to stay afloat as waves and waves of hardship wash over their heads. In his maritime metaphor, she should be the one standing on the pier with hands on her hips, rolling her eyes and throwing life jackets to his face. But this time, it feels like they're both racing in deep waters, rushing to a finish line neither of them can see.

When he asks, every time, she says there's nothing wrong.

He knows better than to believe _that_.

Prying a little reveals it to be a family matter, and he reads a cocktail of pessimistic and negative emotions off her. She's becoming very good at deflection, however, quickly changing the subject when she feels threatened – and when all else fails, she's not above bodily throwing him out of her office.

But _he killed_ to save her life, and there's a nagging part of his brain that insists on taking responsibility for her continued well-being. It has nothing to do with –

– _anything_. It's just self-preservation. _Really_. They work closely together, it would make sense that anything making her miserable would make _him_ miserable by proxy. So when she acts that way, it leaves him in the uncomfortable position of either trying to ignore the obvious, something he's never been very good at, or providing distraction whenever possible – something they both need a lot of, these days.

The whole situation makes him uneasy though, because he's reckless – he _knows_ he's reckless – and she isn't stopping him. She berates him when he insults 'important' people, and yells when he doubles her load of paperwork, but mostly she just rolls with the tide and lets him do what he wants. He sometimes even catches her scheming on her own, and her schemes give him ideas on which he can build plans, and then when he presents them to her, it only takes a minimum of coaxing before she agrees to play her part.

But he can't really complain – as long as they close cases, it keeps their bosses happy, and they can come back to the Red John case by the end of the day. This odd partnership works pretty well for them.

For now, at least.

 _Nice, quick and easy._

It all comes crashing down two hours later in Minelli's office, along with a dead suspect and a quarter million dollars worth of damage in a department store.

"Hey Sam, get in here," says their boss, with an impatient hand gesture.

The man who steps in the office is underwhelming. Slightly hunched, baldness hidden by a close hair shave, the start of a pot belly well on its way. The kind of man he usually dismisses with a glance. The feeling is mutual, it seems – this 'Sam' only has eyes for Lisbon, who jumped upright as soon as Minelli called him in.

"Lisbon," he nods.

 _Soft unassuming voice, embarrassed behaviour. How did that mark ever make it to the CBI?_

"Bosco," she nods back, shaking his hand.

"Agent Bosco and his unit are taking over the Red John case."

" _What?!_ No no no."

He jumps to his feet, mind caught in a haze of denial. Minelli's next word barely make it past the fog.

"You've always been too close to the case, and now _both_ of you are _way_ too close. We need to make a change."

"Can we talk about this?"

" _No_. You've worked for agent Bosco. You know that he will do the job right."

 _This guy? Really? He can't even hold my gaze!_

"You need to let my team finish what they started."

"Teresa, no offence, but you guys aren't even close to catching this guy. Fresh set of eyes gotta be a good idea."

Lisbon looks crushed, all the fight draining out of her, and _that_ on top of everything else makes his stunned panic turn to anger.

"What do _you_ know about the case?"

"Not much," answers Bosco flippantly. "He's a serial killer. Fifteen victims, including your wife and child. I can imagine your pain."

Then the man narrows his eyes, throws back his shoulders, and his expression of sympathy turns to cold iron.

"Maybe that pain is clouding your judgement."

 _Huh._

Maybe it is.

That or _something_ , anyway – he's not in the habit of missing a piece of information so crucial as a mile-wide cruelty streak when assessing someone's character.

"Wow," he bites out, eyes going from Bosco to Minelli, who clearly isn't going to be of any help.

 _Nothing more for me here._

He'll find a way – he always finds a way. Right now he needs to get out, get some fresh air into him before impulsiveness drives him to something he'll regret.

"And me, Sam? What's clouding _my_ judgement?"

" _D'you really want me to_ – "

The door closes behind him and cuts Bosco's voice mid-sentence – not that he cares what the man was saying anyway. This is ridiculous. How can Minelli expect anyone to find Red John without his help? He's the best asset the CBI ever had! Giving _his_ case to someone else must be the worst idea that old _goat_ came up with, and he'll happily prove it too, because _there's no way his precious Agent Bosco will ever_ –

He stops.

 _I can use that._

If he quits, a few weeks of his star team back to a _normal_ close rate and they'll trip all over themselves to get him back. Minelli did bow to his will about Jared Renfrew after he quit, didn't he? Changed his mind quite easily, too – only needed the team to take a stand. He just has to get some boxes, pack his things, say his goodbyes and _wait_. And it's a good plan, an _excellent_ plan, except –

– except, with one look in the bullpen, he knows he can't go through with it.

Even if he didn't feel responsibility for Lisbon, even if _she wasn't his_ –

– where would he go? Even just for two weeks, what would he do?

He has nothing else left.

 _When did you become such a sucker, Paddy?_ says the nasty voice of his father at the back of his mind.

"This is my fault," says Lisbon to the team, shoulders slumping with guilt and defeat, body coiled tight with frustration. "But it's a wake-up call for all of us. We've grown slack and unprofessional. We need to earn back the trust that we've lost."

Leaving the cardboard boxes behind the printer, he walks to his couch and sits, half his mind already at work coming up with ' _Plan_ _B_ '.

"From now on, we work 100% straight. No more shortcuts, no more gambles, no more bending the rules. We do the good, _honest_ , professional police work we've all been trained to do – we get proof, catch criminals, put them behind bars. Nothing else. Understood?"

"Yes, Boss."

Of them three, Van Pelt especially appears disheartened. But they nod and go back to their desks without voicing any protest – and there isn't a thing in this whole situation that doesn't make him _mad_.

"That's not gonna work," he says, tapping a thumb against his bottom lip.

"What isn't?"

His eyes rise to meet Lisbon's, who stands sideways to him, hands curled in fists and quietly vibrating with the need to let off steam. And perhaps a shouting match is what they both need right now.

That's something he can easily provide.

"We're the CBI's best unit," he says, with a hand gesture encompassing the team. "99% close rate, right?"

"100% _now_ ," she answers bitterly.

He shrugs it off. That's temporary, and he's fully confident he'll close _that_ one too, once he finds a way to get it back from _Agent Bosco_.

"What's your point?"

"We don't get that close rate playing by the book. If you have us do the same old _boring_ cop routine, we'll have the same old _boring_ cop results."

"And by 'same old _boring_ cop results', you mean – _what?_ No stacks of complaints piling on my desk? No endless complications in the courtroom?"

"Oh _come on_ , you know what I mean."

"No summon into the boss' office to be scolded – "

"What's _Bosco's_ close rate, huh? 60%?"

" – like a child, no losing our most important case – "

 _"That's_ not on me!"

" – because Minelli thinks I can't handle you, no – "

"No one _handles_ me!"

" – accusations of _being involved_ with – "

"We're up," interrupts Van Pelt. "Twenty Palms."

Lisbon glares at him, then gives her orders and leaves before the rest of them, still fuming. And for the first time since he started pushing her buttons to make her react, all those years ago, he's glad for Van Pelt intruding on them at the crucial moment.

Because _that_ , right now, didn't feel like one of their 'letting-out-steam, no-consequence' shouting matches at all.

 _That_ felt like a pressure cooker about to explode.

* * *

It's a stroke of luck that Van Pelt interrupted her when she did. Just a few more seconds and she would have blurted out enough, if overheard, to warrant her a suspension at the very least – plus _unending years_ of the worst kind of gossip.

She doesn't need _that_ on top of everything else.

She didn't need Sam's veiled accusation either, but his words are still prickling her mind, like a thousand tiny little barbs sinking deep into an open, festering wound.

 _D'you really want me to spell it out?_

And if she takes the wheel in her current state, sooner or later she'll have to arrest herself for reckless driving.

"Van Pelt, you drive."

It's probably a poor way of showing her gratitude, but the young woman doesn't seem to mind – the expression on her face as she grabs the key is nothing short of hopeful, with the usual side of hero worship.

She _really_ wishes Van Pelt would shake it off.

"Where's Jane?" asks Rigsby.

She shrugs, irritated.

"Riding with Cho, I guess."

"He always ride with you, Boss."

"Well he's not here, isn't he? Van Pelt, _it's not a jet plane!_ "

"Okay okay, _okay_."

Another click and tweak – the car alarm wails, making them all wince.

" _S – sorry!_ "

Just as her colleague _finally_ manages to start the SUV, the door behind her slides open, letting Jane in.

"Hey! Aren't you supposed to wait for everyone?"

"You snooze, you lose," she growls.

She doesn't think a word of it, and there's a twinge of guilt twisting her heart but she's so _annoyed_ – it's like watching something take possession of her body, using her voice to hurl abuse at everyone around. And she's too tired, too angry, too _sad_ to do anything about it.

"Thought you were riding with Cho. Do up your seatbelt," she adds, trying to sound at least _a little_ less scathing.

She's not quite sure how effective it is.

The ride to Twenty Palms is silent and awkward. She can feel the waves of uneasiness coming off Rigsby and Van Pelt, and their quiet relief when they stop in the parking lot near the victim's apartment. Jane, on the other hand, is as obnoxious as usual – running his _patronising_ mouth at them, offering _unwanted_ advice and _sketchy_ interpretation of events, messing up with evidence _like he always does_.

She could just bang her own head against the walls in frustration – _or his_ – when every single one of his _damned_ hypothesis turns out to be true.

"Before we get on the freeway, it'd be good to take a little drive around the neighbourhood," he says, and she hates that _superior smirk_ on his face. "Be good to find an empty house for sale.

"Why would that be good?" she asks.

"Oh – I'm thinking of moving here," he grins.

He's _testing_ her, she just knows, and she's _so fed up_ with his antics.

" _No secrets_ , Jane. No lies, no tricks, no surprises. _The truth_."

He rocks lightly on the ball of his feet, distaste written all over his face.

"Since when is _that_ the rule?"

" _Since I said so!_ "

"Else what?"

"You're off the unit."

And she can't believe she just said that, but Jane is already raising his eyebrows in alarm, and there's no taking it back now.

"You can't _sack_ me!"

" _Watch me_."

"Oh _come on_ , Lisbon, don't be childish. You need me too much for that. How would you guys cope without me?"

"Oh, so we are lost without you, are we?"

"Well – _yeah_ , let's be honest here."

 _Jerk._

She slams the door in his face and climbs in her seat.

"Let's go," she bites out.

Van Pelt starts the car without a word – as they drive away, she watches Jane's silhouette becoming smaller and smaller in the side mirror, until they turn a corner and he disappears.

She sighs, rubs her forehead.

In her left hand, his name is shimmering softly.

"No offence, Boss, but – I think we _do_ need Jane," says Rigsby.

 _I know._

"We'd manage! Maybe we wouldn't close as many cases, but the ones we did, we'd close right – like _professionals_."

She pauses.

"Anyway, it's not like he's off the unit. _Yet_ ," she adds, grumbling.

"I think he'd deserve it. He really was a jerk back there," says Van Pelt unexpectedly. "Boss, are you okay?"

 _No._

"I'm fine," she answers shortly, picking up her phone. "Cho, please go back and get Jane."

"Okay."

She closes her eyes, grimaces.

"Sorry to inflict him on you, I really need a break."

"No problem," Cho chuckles before hanging up.

They drive in silence for a while – Rigsby shuffling now and then in the back, Van Pelt doing her best to avoid her eyes – and adrenaline wears off with her anger, leaving only sadness and uneasiness and disquiet until, wracked with guilt, she can't deal with it anymore.

"I'm sorry guys," she says quietly. "I messed up."

"It's okay, Boss," answers Rigsby. "Everybody has an off day."

"Yeah, with the case and Jane's attitude – totally understandable," adds Van Pelt.

Except it's not just an off day. It's been an off _two weeks_ – since the shooting, since her thoughtless words caused her brother to break eight years of sobriety and fall down the rabbit hole again. Since she stopped sleeping at night, then slept too much, then stopped again. Since the only thing she manages to keep down every day is coffee.

When they finally park near the Dunniger's family house, she's bonelessly tired, emotionally drained and numb. The prospect of work is utterly unappealing, only made worse by the prospect of dealing with Jane again. She pinches the bridge of her nose.

He never made apologising to him easy.

Which is why his sunny grin and happy demeanour when he and Cho finally join them surprises her so much.

" _Strawberries_ ," she deadpans, trying to get a read off his face.

He hums, obviously pleased with himself.

She picks one, takes a bite – the sweet and acidic taste reminds her of trust falls, of an orange shared in a sunlit garden, of shoulders bumping against one another in quiet support.

"See? How good is that?" says Jane, passing his offerings around.

"Uh-huh. Good," she answers, and it's so hard not to fall back on their usual routines, forget what happened just moments before.

She takes a deep breath.

"Cho, Rigsby, start canvassing the neighbours. Van Pelt – "

A glance toward Jane reveals him nearby, rocking lightly on his feet.

" – go talk to the family, take the lead. Jane and I will join you in a minute."

Van Pelt looks happy enough to burst, barely stopping herself from skipping to the Dunniger's doorstep. She can't remember ever having that kind of enthusiasm.

 _No doubt Sam would disagree._

She swallows convulsively, turns back to Jane – thinking about Bosco brings back the betrayal she felt earlier, and _that_ really isn't the best thing to ponder on right now.

Not when she still owes apologies to her _partner_.

"Uhm, Lisbon, I uh, I'm sorry for what I said to you before. I didn't _really_ mean that. You and the team, you – you'd get there eventually. I just speed things up a little. So – can I _please_ continue working with you?"

She blinks.

 _That was unexpected._

"I'm not kicking you off, Jane. And – "

She cringes. But it must be said.

" – I'm sorry too. I overreacted. It's just – "

A deep breath, and she meets his eyes – it takes her a moment to recognise the expression he sports as _concern_.

" – after what happened this morning with Minelli, there _has_ to be boundaries."

"You're right. Absolutely."

"I need to know you can do your work and be effective without creating a mess that I have to clean up."

"No mess, I swear."

"Alright," she says, uneasy.

He smiles, his expression a little sheepish.

"We good?"

"I – guess? What are you _doing?_ "

"Hugging you. What does it look like?" he chuckles in her ear, his arms around her shoulders.

She pats his back awkwardly, and doesn't miss the way his fingers trail along her neck briefly as he lets go, making just a short stop on her pulse. Then he's grinning in a way that makes her wary, chases off all thoughts of that little gesture, and triggers an obsessive search of her pockets.

"Here, take another," he says, patiently holding out the pint of strawberries while she makes sure she still has everything. "When will you ever trust me?"

She smiles wryly as they walk side by side to the Dunniger's home, red fruit flavours lingering on her tongue, but doesn't answer.

She wouldn't know what to say.

* * *

He rides back to Sacramento alone with Lisbon, watching from the corner of his eye as she curls on herself in the passenger seat. She looks exhausted, staring ahead in emptiness instead of fiddling with her phone as she usually does – and his plan of convincing Bosco to keep them up to date on the case or, if all else fails, convincing Minelli to _give it back_ , will only work so long as their team leader doesn't give off vibes like she's about to _drop dead_.

When even his most outrageous statements are met with apathy and one-word answers, a wave of worry washes over him again.

 _That will not do._

It's a novel feeling, worrying for someone else than himself. Something that didn't happen in a long time. Something he almost managed to forget, because it used to happen so often in happier times – small things, when his daughter outgrew her tricycle and got started on a bike, when he lost sight of his wife for a few seconds as they were swimming in the ocean – and he doesn't think much of happiness these days. But now it starts again, a small, _foreign_ , gripping sensation in the pit of his stomach that climbs slowly to his lungs, and then takes over his mind before he has time to stop its progression.

It's almost like being born to the world anew – a very unpleasant, aching, desperately helpless sensation.

"Are you hungry?" he asks, glancing her way.

"No."

The buzz of a motorcycle passing them momentarily breaks the silence – then quietness falls again.

"We could – uh, stop at Marie's before we get back. They have great coffee there, right?"

She sighs.

"I'm not thirsty either."

"When was the last time you slept?"

She shrugs, and he could just _shake her_ to get a reaction.

Instead he buries the feeling deep inside, gets off the freeway two exits early, drives until he reaches the edge of a small park he likes to walk through sometimes, and stops the car.

Then waits.

It takes her more than a minute to notice they aren't moving anymore, and that departs so strongly from her usual behaviour he's about to _burst_ with the need to do _something_.

"Why did you stop here?" she finally asks, light frown marring her features.

"Because it's a beautiful place, and you need to relax. Let's go."

"No, Jane – _come on_ , let's just go back, okay? I'll drive, just give me the – "

"Nope! If you want the keys, you'll have to catch me," he grins, escaping her hands.

" _Jane! Come back here! Damnit, Jane_ – "

Her voice is still muffled in the inside of the car as he reaches the grassy area and walks away, but soon enough slammed doors and noises of annoyance echo behind him – and when he looks behind him, she's a lot closer than he expected.

"Stop that!" she yells when he runs and escapes her reaching hands again. "I'm not in the mood for your stupid games! Give me the car keys, now!"

He pays her no mind, still running, and chuckles when she starts chasing after him. She's a lot faster than her size advertises – but he's trickier, keeps changing course at the last minute until he runs out of stamina and she tackles him to the ground.

They land on the lawn in a heap of limbs, out of breath, and the rosy flush on her cheeks suits her _so much more_ than the pale, pasty look of the last two weeks. He can feel every blade of grass tickling his neck, the weight of her on his back and legs as she turns him over, the tree roots painfully poking his shoulder blades. And he finds himself mesmerised by her self-pleased grin and the mischievous glint in her eyes – _alive_ – but then his train of thought is interrupted by small hands on his hips, nimble fingers rummaging inside his pockets, and this is an opportunity too good to pass up.

" _Jane!_ " she yelps when he reaches up and tickles her sides. "Stop, _stop that!_ "

She jumps away, falling back on her elbows, and he follows with outstretched hands until she starts kicking, one foot landing right on his stomach.

" _Oof!_ "

"Oh God! I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he wheezes, breathing made harder by the fact he's still chuckling. "You have one _mean_ left kick, Lisbon."

"So I've been told. Now you know what happens when you tickle me. Don't do it again if you don't want another taste of that," she says with a wry smile.

"Yeah. _Phew!_ So, uh – did you get the keys?"

Her grin is real this time as she dangles them on one finger, and he gets back up with a matching one, fishing up another set from the inside of his jacket.

"Those are _my_ keys, Lisbon. I still have the car's," he chuckles.

"But now I have yours. What are you gonna do?"

"Is this a hostage situation? The CBI handbook says we don't deal with terrorists."

Her laugh comes like a hiccough, sharp and surprised, high and carefree, and his grin widens. There's grass caught in her hair.

" _I'm_ with the CBI, you jackass! _You're_ the one using _unlawful_ tickle attacks."

"Oh! Well. Let's start negotiations, then. I have your keys, you have mine. Do we proceed to an exchange of hostages?"

"The CBI doesn't deal with terrorists," she repeats, smiling.

"What if I sweeten the deal?"

"I'm listening."

And just like that, he has her _right_ where he wanted.

"I could do something nice for you," he muses, pointing finger tapping against his lips. "Let's say – "

 _Reel in..._

" – three days of perfect behaviour, immediately sharing every single one of my reasonable hunches, and deferring to your authority in all things. And you give me back my keys."

She crosses her arms over her chest, taps her foot twice, almost distractedly.

"One week. And you didn't say anything about giving back mine."

"You're right, I didn't," he smirks. "And if you want one week, you'll have to sweeten _my_ deal."

She rolls her eyes.

"So what do _you_ want?"

"Why, the same thing, Lisbon."

"You're not making any sense."

"Three days of honesty, where I will hear no lies – "

" _I don't lie!_ "

" – nor deflection from you. Although if _you_ want a whole week, perhaps I should ask for the same."

" _Yeah right_. Are you kidding me? When did I ever lie to you?"

He raises an eyebrow.

"So if I ask you how you've been doing these last two weeks, you'll say... what? ' _I'm fine'?_ "

The rosy flush in her cheeks becomes a full-blown blush. She averts her eyes, and he smirks.

"One day," she says stiffly.

"Just _one_ day? That's not very fair of you."

" _Yes it is_ , because _I'm_ the honest one here, so it stands to reason that my _complete_ honesty is worth _more_ – I'm not in the habit of concealing things!"

He raises his other eyebrow.

" _Much._ Not trivial things, anyway," she adds with a grimace. "I don't know why you even bother to ask for something like that – it's not like you need it!"

 _"Touché_ ," he grins. "Alright, but then I get to ask for something else. One day of your honesty may be worth three days of my good behaviour, but certainly not _one week_. So – "

 _Reel in... slowly...  
_

" – If I give you one week of good behaviour, you give me one day of honesty, _and_ – you call Minelli to take some time off."

Laughter bubbles out of her mouth like champagne.

"You want me to take _time off?_ Wait. Is this part of a scheme? I swear to God, Jane, if you're trying to cause trouble – "

"No, _no_ , nothing like _that._ "

She waits, suspicious and mistrustful.

"It's just – "

It's just somehow when he came up with this little fishing expedition, he never expected to have to _explain_ himself – and being caught in the act of _caring_ was never part of his plan.

Nor is explaining how he intends to get back the Red John case, for that matter.

" – it's just, it's obvious something's been eating at you lately, and I'd rather you take a break _before_ you break something important. Like – the window in your office. Or – or a suspect's nose. Or _mine_. My nose."

 _Or yourself._

Because even if he didn't _need_ her good health to assure the working of his scheme, he knows the path she's headed on – knows that the bouts of depression and anger, the mood swings, the lack of sleep and feeding, the listless moments lead right to the kind of meltdown he doesn't want to see her slip in.

Couldn't _bear_ to see her slip in.

She looks at him, the curve of her eyebrows spelling faint disbelief – but the shadows behind her eyes are proof that she knows the exact meaning hidden in his words. And when she sighs and glares, he knows she'll do as he asks.

Reluctantly, perhaps – but she will.

 _... And hooked. Perfect._

" _Fine_ ," she growls. "One week off _if_ Minelli allows it, and one day of honesty. _You_ call me every night to tell me _exactly_ what you've been up to while I'm gone, and you give me one whole week of good behaviour when I come back. Plus the keys."

"Doesn't that amount to _two_ weeks of good behaviour, if I call you every night?" he grins.

Her glare intensifies, and he raises his hands.

"Well, as long as you don't expect me to _behave_ while you're gone, that sounds like a good deal to me. You?"

"As good as possible considering who I'm dealing with," she shrugs.

"Perfect," he smiles, then picks up his phone and walks to her.

"What are you doing?" she asks, nonplussed.

"Calling Minelli."

"What, _now?_ "

" _Yes_ , now – if you don't do it _now_ , you won't do it at all. Come on."

She cringes, but takes the device in her hand just as the ringing stops.

"Minelli," says the gruff voice of their boss, echoing on speaker.

"Uhm, hi Boss."

"Agent Lisbon. What's going on?"

"I, uh – I'm sorry, it's – "

She pinches the bridge of her nose, and silently mouths off something that looks like 'this was a terrible idea'.

"Hello Virgil!" he says, taking pity on her. "Lisbon needs to take some personal time, can she have it?"

" _Jane!_ "

"Lisbon, is that true, or is this Jane yanking my chain?"

She shoots him another glare, but he sends one back pointedly, dangling the car keys just out of her reach.

"Yes, it is," she answers, biting her lip. "My brother's getting married this week-end, I'd like to be there."

" _She finally sees the light!_ The personal management staff will be delighted. When are you flying up to Chicago?"

"As soon as we close the case, sir. With Jane, that shouldn't be too long."

He grins cheekily – she notices, and rolls her eyes – to conceal how much the offhand comment touches him.

"When are you coming back?"

"Uh, five days. Seven at most."

"Take two weeks."

"No need."

" _Two weeks_ , Lisbon. Give my best to your brother, and enjoy your – ah wait, that reminds me. Dr. Carmen didn't sign off on you yet, didn't he?"

"No yet, no. But – "

"I'll arrange an emergency meeting for you tomorrow afternoon. _Do try_ to have the shrink sign those damn papers, Agent – but if he doesn't, don't forget to notify him of your absence for the next two weeks. Good evening!"

"What? No no no, I was planning to drop him and ask – "

He grins again when Minelli hangs up, and Lisbon stays gaping like a fish.

" – a priest to sign off on me," she finishes in a growl. " _Urgh!_ "

"Nice touch, about your brother's wedding. Very realistic," he says, taking back his phone. "How d'you get the idea? Wishful thinking?"

"It wasn't a lie."

He fights the urge to do a double take.

Fails.

"Your brother is getting married _this week-end?_ Which one?"

"Stan."

" _And you were not going?_ "

She shrugs, but doesn't meet his eyes.

"We have work to do here. I can't just leave every time something comes up."

"Lisbon, you – don't you think you'll regret it if you miss out on them?"

"It's not like I never see them at all! And by the way, _you owe me_."

Still reeling from his inner outraged reaction, he nearly misses her last words.

" _Owe_ you? What for?"

"Minelli gave me two weeks. Your deal was supposed to be for _one_."

He chuckles wryly, shaking his head. Letting go. Family is the one subject he feels uncomfortable butting in.

He's not _that much_ of a hypocrite.

"What do you want then? I'm afraid two weeks of good behaviour is a little too much for me."

She rolls her eyes, but there's a smile hiding in the corner of her lips, and he squashes the urge to tease it out.

For now.

"A favour," she says. "One day I'll ask for something, and you'll give it to me."

" _What_ something?"

She shrugs, and the quirk of her lips climbs just a little higher.

"I don't know yet. But you'll know when I do."

"An I.O.U," he says, tapping a finger against his lips.

He isn't quite comfortable with the idea. But then again, it's _Lisbon_ – what's the worst she could come up with?

"Alright. Provided it has nothing to do with Red John, I can agree to those terms."

She nods. Shakes his outstretched hand.

"So – are we done?"

"I believe we are. Pleasure doing business with you, Lisbon. Which reminds me – "

He pulls her phone out of his pocket, puts it back in her hands along with the car keys, and takes back his own set while she's left staring at the device, nonplussed.

"You stole my phone?! You _stole_ my _phone_. When?! No, forget when – _why the hell_ did you steal my phone for?"

"So you couldn't just throw the keys to my face and call a cab, of course," he grins. "Shall we?"

She glares, but there's laughter in her eyes as she hits his shoulder with the back of her hand – and it warms him up inside to know that at no point did she even consider that course of action.

They walk back to the car, falling side by side – his fingers climbing up to rest at the small of her back, as they so often do these days. And their exchange left him tired, _exhausted_ really, but there's some amount of satisfaction, some relief also – like winning a hard fought battle, or swimming across a pool of jelly.

He's not picky on the metaphor.

"Do you want me to drop you off to your place?" she asks, settling behind the wheel.

"No, I have a meeting with Bosco, remember? Plus my car's in the parking lot, I need to get it back."

"Bosco. Right."

All previous levity disappears from her voice, and the way she purses her lips in suppressed anger is surprising – she's usually wary of showing so much discontent toward other team leaders.

And she's avoiding his eyes, too.

"He really rattled your chain earlier, didn't he? What did he say to you?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Must have been _some_ choice words if you're still angry with him."

" _I said –_ "

"I heard you."

"Then why are you still asking?"

" _Meh_ , you know me. I'm just nosy. So – what did he say?"

She glances at him then, one eyebrow raised.

"Is this you requesting your day of honesty?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he grins. "Nope."

"Then stop prying."

Something personal then.

 _And she never manages to conceal and deflect so well as when it's about –_

A quick check proves him right – her left fist, barely noticeable under the hem of her sleeve, is curled tightly on itself. And that means either Bosco brought up the topic of soulmates after he left, which seems incredibly unlikely.

Or he said something about _him_.

Because those two subjects are related now, aren't they?

"You okay?" asks Lisbon suddenly, startling him back to reality. "Your breathing went funny for a minute."

"I'm fine."

He doesn't want to pursue this line of investigation anymore.

The sunset is already well on its way when they finally drive past the CBI gates. Orange light beautifully colours the tan and red brick façade of the main building, brightens the warmer hues of their skin and darkens the cold blue shades. Lisbon parks the SUV in its usual place and gets out, closing the door on her side with a loud bang.

He finds he can't follow as easily.

There wasn't a sunset that night. The sky was covered in clouds and the night fell easily, covering the Tanner farm and the surrounding fields in a heavy blanket of shadows and darkness. He remembers how the lights on top of the ambulance turned everything in sight into a study of red and black, and can feel phantom burns slowly rising on his skin. He can nearly hear the metallic, booming, _empty_ sound of the shotgun again, the terrible retching noise Hardy made as he died, and smell gunpowder and blood and _earth and nails and pine and_ –

"Hey," says Lisbon, tapping in the window. "You okay?"

 _No._

Until now, he had always managed to find himself in a safe place at nightfall. His couch, _her_ couch, his hotel room – anywhere he doesn't have to watch the night fall, doesn't have to remember and think and _feel_.

He gets out slowly, winces when the door slams shut behind him – the noise creates new painful echoes in his head. She glances at him with concern, and he finds he can't hold her gaze. Because the earthquake born that night still hasn't completely settled inside him, and if he lets her _see_ him before it does, he'll blurt out unspoken truths he isn't ready to face yet.

There's still the need to reach out, however – to feel her _alive_ against him. An urge imperative and heady, on which he clamps down with all his might because the voice of his father is rising in his head to mock him for being weak and small and afraid – and the cycle of dread starts again, taunting him with the knowledge that _perhaps, perhaps_ he's slowly turning into Red John, and _he has to take back control of himself before Lisbon notices_.

Except, she doesn't.

She doesn't because she's distracted, off in a world of her own – rubbing on her forehead and staring ahead, unseeing, as caught up in her mind as he is. And he breathes just a little easier, even if the urge to reach out isn't going anywhere, until he notices the deepened line between her eyebrows, on her forehead, around her mouth. Until he notices the way her hands are quivering lightly.

Perhaps she needs this just as much as he does. And if she does, perhaps giving in can be allowed this time?

If he does it for her sake?

"Lisbon. Would you mind giving me a hug?"

She jumps, as if she forgot he was standing there.

"Why? I gave you one earlier," she says, traces of uneasiness in the curve of her spine.

His attempt to pass it off as a flight of fancy doesn't seem to be working very well.

 _Try harder_.

"No. _I_ gave you one. _You_ patted my back and stood there all – all _stiff_ and _awkward_."

He swallows painfully and smiles, hoping she doesn't notice his throat bobbing up and down.

"Come on. I'd like a real one now."

Clearly conflicted, her expression reminds him of that time he requested they do a trust fall – halfway between supplication and longing, a battle of will between keeping appearances and hidden yearnings.

Then she huffs, and comes closer.

At first it seems like she has no idea what she's doing – arms loosely wrapped around his middle, hard chin set against his collarbone, still keeping half a foot of distance between them. It makes no sense, because the way she held him that night was _perfect_ – she _knows_ how to do this. So why is she keeping her distances _now_ , when they both need this so much?

But she stands there unmoving, still unbearably stiff and awkward – and it's up to him to close the distance between them, press one hand between her shoulder blades and curl the other around her nape, fingertips seeking the vibrating throb in her neck. His cheek comes to a rest against the top of her head before she finally relaxes, turns her face aside and burrows her nose in his clothes. He closes his eyes.

Breathes in deeply.

Allows himself to calm down minutely, let the thrumming of her pulse soothe his mind, soak in her warmth and scent. No more earth, no more nails, no more pine. Just almond pastries, hints of coffee, and light, sweet, wispy cinnamon.

Breathes out.

Slowly releases his grasp on shotguns and death and hands _burningburningburning_.

Then a suspicious sniffling sound makes his eyes open up in alarm.

 _Is she – ?!_

"Didn't you have a meeting with Bosco?" she asks, voice a little stuffy.

" _Meh_. I'll blame everything on traffic."

She chuckles – or sobs, he isn't quite sure which. He tightens his arms around her shoulders.

"It's gonna be okay," he sing-songs, as much for her as for himself.

"Of course," she says – sniffling again.

"You're gonna see your niece next week."

"Hopefully before that."

"She's gonna beat you at one-person shooter again."

It's a true laugh this time, and the sound is compelling enough to let him loosen his grip. She waits a few beats before taking a step back, and he turns away slightly, giving her the privacy to wipe her eyes if she needs to.

"It's late," she says, voice nearly back to normal. "I think I'll go back home."

He nods.

"See you tomorrow then?"

"Uh-huh. Don't forget we have a meeting at Jaffe Printing in Bay Shore. Ten o'clock."

"Alright. Meet you there?"

"Sure."

He rocks on his feet a little, she shuffles from side to side – both avoiding each other's eyes, neither of them really wanting to part ways. But it's quickly becoming awkward, so he raises his left hand and waves, walks to the main entrance – turns back for a quick glance just in time to catch a smile before her car disappears down the street.

It's not until he's up on the roof, looking for Bosco, that he realises she left a blade of grass on the right lapel of his jacket.

He finds himself oddly reluctant to brush it off.

* * *

It's late evening when the cab leaves her in front of her brother's house.

She stays outside a moment, undecided, watching shadows move back and forth in front of the window – a part of her mind wondering if it's too late already, if she shouldn't turn away and leave. Stan doesn't know she's coming – and the _damn_ shrink would probably have a field day with that, but it's not _her_ fault if she was so busy making sure everything was in order before she left that she forgot to call him.

That they aren't waiting for her to arrive, right now, is merely _convenient_ to her 'fight or flight' reflexes.

But she didn't take that flight all the way up here from California just to turn back at the last moment, no matter what the small pit of dread in the bottom of her stomach says. And she just can't wait to see Annabeth – _deliberately avoids thinking of Tommy_ – and Stan, and Karen, and Jimmy who's sure to be around with a new girlfriend again. So she tightens her grip on her overnight bag, climbs the three stairs to her brother's doorstep, and knocks.

Jimmy opens the door and freezes, mouth hanging.

"Hi," she smiles, feeling a little self-conscious.

"Oh. My. God. _Stan, come quick!_ " he yells, ushering her in with a huge smile. "Come in, come in! _Stan! Teresa came! She's at the door!_ He better make it before you have to go back to the other end of the world. Oh my God, T, I can't believe you're _here!_ "

In the span of a blink she finds herself sandwiched in a cuddly, squealing mass of brothers, in-laws and relatives. And the way Stan's arms enfold her warm and affectionate, the way Jimmy can't seem to stop the excited babble coming out of his mouth, the way Annabeth sounds high and childish but nearly stands eye to eye with her now, the way Karen smiles delighted and welcoming – she finds herself cuddling back, smiling back, twirling around the hall with them, offering greetings and congratulations and best wishes, and she realises just how much _she missed it_.

Missed the proximity of a family related by blood, bonded both by shared hardship and happier days, missed having people she can go to and forget about being Team Leader and Senior Agent Lisbon, forget about murders and crimes and killers, just be happy and carefree and _Teresa_ for a while.

She _missed_ _them_ , stubbornness nearly made her _missed this_ , and she can't keep _missing_ _on them_ like she did for years.

Guilt or no guilt.

 _Jane was right_ , she thinks, chagrined – his name a distant star her thoughts keep revolving around. But then everyone here is talking at the same time, distracting her nicely, and there's no way she can stay focussed on depressing thoughts when she has an armful of her niece wrapped around her.

" – so she grabs the bat with those skinny little arms, sticks out her tongue and God, you should've seen that, T, this kid here hit the best damn home run I've ever seen in my life," says Jimmy, all shining eyes and expansive hand gestures.

There's a small healing cut just an inch under the girl's left eye, she notices distractedly. Where did _that_ come from?

"That right, Annabeth?"

" _Meh_ ," the kid shrugs, her features a blend of modesty and self-pleased smile. "You know Uncle Jimmy, he's always blowing things out of proportion."

" _Am not!_ "

" _Are too!_ "

The girl flings herself at her uncle, and Stan comes to stand beside her, bumping her shoulder with an easy smile. She bumps back, finding she doesn't mind the invasion of her personal space so much.

"Isn't it past their bedtimes?" she chuckles, watching Jimmy and Annabeth wrestling on the carpet.

"Better they get all the wigglies out now," he grins, prompting her laughter again.

"Can I offer you something? Decaf perhaps, a snack?" asks Karen, already halfway to the kitchen.

"Decaf would be good, thank you. I wanted to get some at the airport but the lines were so long, wouldn't get here before midnight at the earliest."

" _Ha!_ Ours is better than the swill you'd get in those kinds of shops anyway," grins Stan. "Come on, before Jimmy remembers he's supposed to be an adult."

She leaves her bag and shoes by the door, and follows him across the living room.

"Like what you did with the place. Looks _loads_ better than last time," she smiles. "Are those new?"

"The curtains? Oh yeah, that's Karen. You know her, she's down to earth but there's this part of her that really likes lace and all that – _girly_ stuff. So I told her, 'As long as there's no pink in sight, you can do whatever you want'. She asked if _cornsilk_ was okay. What the hell is _cornsilk_ anyway? Then one day she comes back with these, and plans to make me repaint the living room, and – well, there you go."

"Nesting already, huh?" she grins. "I'm glad. You look well. She's good for you."

"Yeah," he smiles, his expression a little dreamy. "She is."

Even if she had never met Karen – and she loves her soon-to-be sister-in-law to bits but Stan is her _brother_ , she cares about him first – the look on his face would be enough to convince her. His usual gruff appearance seems softer somehow, smoothed over by happiness. And it's great. It's proof he managed to raise himself above the mess of their childhood, which is everything she ever wished for him.

For all three of them.

 _One safe. Two to go._

" _And_ you two are getting married in _thirty-six hours!_ " says Jimmy, suddenly bouncing on his brother's back, rubbing his head under his arm.

" _Argh, gerroff there!_ "

"Come on, Aunt Reese," says Annabeth, linking their arms together. "Let's go see Aunt Karen before those two remember they're supposed to be adults."

"Where's all that cheek coming from?" she asks, laughing. "You didn't talk back like that the last time I saw you!"

"I believe it's a pre-teen thing," sing-songs Karen. "Here, decaf. Would you like something to eat? We have leftovers from dinner, if you're hungry."

She takes a sip of coffee, closes her eyes – opens them again quickly. The smell and taste are heavenly, but tiredness is catching up to her fast.

"No, thank you. This is wonderful."

"Can I have popcorn?" asks her niece.

"Didn't you already brush your teeth, young lady?"

"I can brush them again! _Pleaaaase_ , can I?"

"The caramel and cheese kind?" she asks, grinning. "Always thought it made baseball games better."

"Makes _everything_ better," beams Annabeth.

"Alright – but just a bit, then you hop to bed. Tomorrow's gonna be a tiring day."

She frowns. There's something here she doesn't understand.

"Annabeth has been living with us for the past few weeks," says Karen quietly, catching her expression.

She opens her mouth to ask _why_ , because Tommy's apartment is barely fifteen minutes away and even if the girl doesn't want to stay with her drinking father – something she would easily understand – isn't her mother's place just a few miles further? But then her brothers invade the kitchen, loud and rambunctious, and her niece seems fine. Seems _happy_.

She can ask those questions later, when the kid's out of earshot.

"So uh, T, how long can you stay?" asks Stan, coming from behind her.

He puts his arm around her shoulders and grins down – a classic display of height he used to enjoy as a teen, after his first growth spurt. She rolls her eyes.

"My boss gave me a lot more time than I asked for, so I was thinking – five days perhaps. Until the Fourth. If, uh, you'll have me?"

" _Of course_ we'll have you. You can stay longer if you want – we'll always be happy to have you around," answers Jimmy, chuckling.

"Do you have a place to stay?" asks Karen, glancing at Stan.

"It's not that we don't want you here," her brother explains, traces of unease on his features. "But Annabeth's been sleeping in the playroom under the roof, and Karen's parents are settling in the guest room early tomorrow – Jimmy busted the couch last week, so that's out, and – "

She's the one chuckling now.

"Don't worry, I wasn't planning on imposing. There's still a Holiday Inn a few blocks from here, right? I'll get a room there, no problem."

"That could work. I can drive you there perhaps? Or – "

He stops, shuffles his feet a bit.

"Or what?" she asks, yawning.

"Or I could drive you to the old house. The last tenants left two months ago. I mean – makes no sense to pay for a room when there's a free place you can stay, right? Jimmy's been sleeping there for a few weeks now, since he's helping with the wedding preparations, so you wouldn't have to go back alone either."

She winces.

"Alright. Hotel it is," he chuckles, leaving her side to pick up his shoes.

It feels cold, without his arm around her.

"No, it's fine," she decides. "Haven't been there since – you know."

"I know."

"Maybe it's time I went back."

Stan's eyes are inquisitive, but she keeps her features blank, and he nods after a few seconds.

"Alright then, if you're sure."

"I took dad's room, but your old bed's still in shape. I changed the sheets," says Jimmy. "The last tenants relocated the bunk beds so it's a little crowded, but it shouldn't be a problem if you're just using the place to sleep."

"Then I'll be fine."

"Remember where to find the key?"

"Of course," she grins. "How could I forget?"

Stan smiles sheepishly.

"Can I go too?" asks Annabeth, mouth full of popcorn. "We could have a sleepover, and Uncle Jimmy could get my bed in the playroom. Aunt Reese shouldn't have to _sleep_ with a _boy_."

Karen's petals of laughter echo tired and delighted in the open space, and she has trouble keeping an amused smile from blooming on her face.

"I think your Aunt Reese would enjoy a little quiet at night, chatterbox," chuckles Stan.

"That's not fair! Uncle Jimmy's more of a chatterbox than _I_ am!"

Her niece's pout is _adorable_ – and if she was powerless against Tommy's when they were both children, there's no way she can resist the same one when it graces the lips of a little girl.

"I don't mind Annabeth, Stan. And Jimmy's your best man, you'll need him here early for the wedding rehearsal. Better he stay – that way we girls can have a sleepover, sleep off the jet lag tomorrow morning, bring you lunch around noon and help you out in the afternoon. Right?"

"Right! _Please please please?_ "

"That would be _fantastic_ , Teresa," says Karen with _heaps_ of gratitude. "Are you sure you don't mind?"

"Not at all! Home-Run here and I have some catching up to do."

As soon as permission is given, Annabeth runs up the stairs to pack her things – and now that the kid left the room, she can see how tired all three of them really look.

"Thank you so much for this, T," sighs Stan. "She's a great kid, but – "

"Everyone needs a break from times to times, I understand. Why is she here? What happened?"

Both Stan and Karen's faces darken, and Jimmy's near _growl_ makes her jump.

"Tommy's an _idiot_ , that's what happened. He – "

" _Jimmy, shut it_. Annabeth's just upstairs – remember the vent traps? You don't want her hearing that."

"Catch me sometime when she's not around, I'll explain," whispers Karen. "But she's fine, there's no lasting damage. Nothing to worry about now."

She doesn't miss how her sister-in-law didn't say anything about _Tommy's_ state. But they wouldn't act so calm about this if one of their brother was _in the hospital_ , or badly _hurt_ , or _dead_ – and Annabeth is sauntering down the stairs with her overnight bag and a carefree smile on her face, so okay, _sure_ , she can wait to get answers.

The guilt she feels toward Tommy isn't going to just _magically disappear_ anyway.

"Stan?" she calls after him, just before he passes the door. "Before we go, I'd like to, uh – I'd like to give you something."

"Yeah?"

She unfastens her necklace, the small cross dipping below the hem of her shirt.

"Well, it's more of a lend, but – here," she says, letting it fall in his hand. "Mum used to hang it at the window before important days, to pray for luck and good weather. I thought – maybe you'd like to – "

Stan looks choked up, and she hasn't seen him so emotional since their father died all those years ago. For a second she wonders if she misstepped – but the expression on his face is surprised and grateful under the flickers of old pain and grief, and a second later he clasps his arms around her, breathing harsh in her ear.

"She'd be so proud of you. _I'm_ so proud of you, Stan."

His words of thanks are barely understandable but _heartfelt_ , and she's feeling a little choked up herself by the time he releases her. At least the grin they share is untainted by past anguish.

"Let's go, before we take root," she chuckles.

Their old family house stands tall on the corner of the street, just as she remembers it. As she gets out of the car, she spares a small glance to the tree in the backyard – the one Jimmy insisted they plant in remembrance once he understood their mother wasn't coming back – but doesn't linger. Tiredness makes her emotional, and she doesn't want to break down in front of her niece.

"You two gonna be alright, T? Annabeth?" asks Stan.

"We'll be fine. I'll call you if anything comes up, okay? See you tomorrow at lunch – I'll bring pizza."

"Got it. G'night, girls."

"G'night, Uncle Stan!"

He drives away and she waves a little, watching him disappear at the end of the street. Then she takes a deep breath and walks to the front door with her niece, smiling to herself as she takes the spare key out of the lantern cover.

The place inside is just as she remembers it – only emptier. No television in the living room, just her father's old couch and her mother's lace curtains. No football or Lego underfoot, just an old carpet covering the tired wooden flooring. The yellow ceiling light is the same, however, and the stained glass lining on the main door still colours the opposite wall with small, dancing patches of red and green every time a car passes by.

It takes very little imagination to picture young boys running down the hallway, and their mother in the kitchen, smiling as she keeps one eye on her brood, the other on three pans simmering over the stove top.

"I've never been here at night," Annabeth says, keeping close.

"There's nothing to be afraid of, I promise."

"Oh, I know. You're here."

Her throat tightens, and she pulls the girl against her. There's something to be said about being given the full trust of a child, but right now she couldn't get out the words if she tried.

"Where are we gonna sleep?"

"My, uh – my old bedroom, upstairs. First door on the right."

"Oh yeah. That one's nice. Can I sleep in the top bunk?"

"Sure. Wanna go up and change?"

"Are you coming with me?"

"I'm gonna take a shower first, the airport made me all _sticky_."

Her niece giggles and runs up the stairs, uneasiness already forgotten. She follows at a more sedate pace – every breath she takes bringing in old feelings renewed, every breath she releases letting just a little of the real world behind. Most of her bad memories are linked to the first floor. Upstairs, on the other hand, used to be hers and her brothers' alone. Three bedrooms, a bathroom and a play space – their shelter against harsh and bleak reality.

Hard not to feel just a little like a teenager again.

Despite the faulty plumbing that sends alternately freezing and scalding shots through the normal warm water, the shower washes away the grime of those last unending weeks, and she ends up feeling more like herself than she has in a while. Damp skin still glistening with steam, she puts on her nightwear jersey and paddles back to her old bedroom, bare feet slipping a bit on the wooden slats. She's only halfway there when Annabeth starts squealing.

"Oh my gosh! That's _adorable!_ "

She frowns, passes the door quickly – doesn't see her niece until she gets inside and realises the only light in the room comes from the closet.

"Everything alright there?" she asks, leaving her bag beside her bed.

"Yeah! I mean – you were taking a lot of time and I was tired so I wanted to sleep but then the closet was open so I got afraid but didn't want you to think I was a chicken so I got up to make sure there wasn't anything inside and then – "

" _Wow_ there! Slow down a little, I didn't even catch half of that. What's going on?"

"Come and see!"

"See _what?_ "

" _The drawing!_ "

Puzzled, she gets behind Annabeth, peers over her shoulder.

" _Look!_ Did you draw that?"

She sucks in a breath.

 _I didn't remember that was there._

The little yellow house was expected, as were the dog and birds, the trees and flowers, the red car. She recognises her father near the house, her mother holding a baby – Stan, she thinks. Tommy is the kid standing beside them on the left.

Jimmy probably wasn't even born yet.

"You did it, right?" says Annabeth, beaming. "It's not a _very good_ drawing, so you must have been practically a _baby_."

"Uh, I don't know. Must have been – five or six, I think," she answers distractedly, mesmerised by the small silhouettes on the far right side.

 _Old enough to know about soulmates._

One small girl with a green dress, black shoes and dark brown hair. One small boy with a light blue shirt, dark trousers, brown shoes and yellow hair.

She got the colours right, if not the curls.

"So that's your mum and dad, right? Is _my_ dad in the picture?"

"Ah, yes. Just there, on the left. Your Uncle Stan is the baby in your grandmother's arms, see?"

"Yes! Where's Uncle Jimmy?"

"He wasn't born yet."

"Wow. And that's you, in the green dress?"

"Mhm."

"Who's the other one on the right?"

They're standing apart, she notices – there's even a tree between them. But a blue swirly line links them together across the sky, and both of them sport happy, carefree smiles.

 _Not old enough to know better._

"Nobody," she answers after a beat. "Come on, it's late – let's get to bed, okay? We can talk a little before lights out."

Annabeth looks up at her, and somehow her expression reminds her of a cat – a curious, mischievous little cat out to make trouble, something displaced and odd on her pre-teen niece's face, something that causes a small seed of worry to grow in her stomach. It takes only a second to realise why it's so odd, and then the seed of worry swells exponentially because she knows that expression very well, she sees it everyday _on the face of –_

"It's _your soulmate_ , right?" she grins, naughty and self-satisfied. "You drew _your soulmate_ on the wall!"

" _Bed_ , Annabeth."

"Seriously that's, like, even _more_ adorable! He's wearing trousers so – that's a boy, right? Did you look him up on Soulbook? Did you meet him already?"

 _How do I always manage to get myself in those kinds of situation?_

And she can nearly hear Jane's voice in her head whispering about secrets and neurosis and trust and honesty, his words blending in with her niece's excited babble – the combination causing pressure behind her eyes and pulsing pain in her temples, both sure signs of an impending headache.

"If I tell you a little about him, will you _promise_ to keep it to yourself?" she blurts out, rubbing a spot between her eyes.

"Yes! I promise!"

"You'll keep _everything_ I tell you a secret between us?"

"I know how to keep secrets," Annabeth answers, flashing the scar on her hand. "Remember?"

"Yes. You do."

 _Alright. Let's do this._

"What do you wanna know?"

"What's his name?"

She smiles wryly as they both snuggle under the blankets, the feeling of being back in time stronger than ever. Is this what it feels like, growing up with a younger sister? Implicit trust, eagerness to spend time together, and secrets whispered in each other's ears at night?

"What's his _name?_ " repeats Annabeth, growing impatient.

"Patrick," she answers, left fist closing tight on itself.

* * *

The sky has been rolling dark, thick and ominous all evening, and it's a relief when it finally breaks down in a loud crack of thunder.

The downpour is sudden, heavy like an old curtain, soaking his clothes in seconds. He stands there with arms outstretched, head thrown back, mouth open. Smiling. The grey blur around him is magnificent, comforting in a desolate way, a perfect reflection of his current mind scape – and he could stay like this for days on end without getting tired of the water hitting his skin harsh, intense, almost painful.

Until Cho bumps his back, ruining the moment.

"Jane! A little help here!"

The man thrusts the corner of a yellow plastic sheet in his hands, and the rain falls, falls, falls.

" _Come on!_ Need to cover the evidence!"

 _Meh_.

He throws the plastic sheet over the body in a half-hearted gesture – it falls short, leaving naked calves exposed, and Rigsby scrambles to pull it over the victim's painted feet.

" _The hell you're doing?!_ "

Cho's eyebrows are tight with pent-up frustration.

"Sorry," he shrugs.

He gets out of their way after that, his listless mood unconducive to efficiency. Instead he stays aside, watching them run around from a distance, one that seems heightened by the ever falling rain.

One that seems heightened by the numbness trying to creep back in.

Sleep didn't come last night, and he can't seem to shake off the tired fogginess dampening his thought process. At least, when the water hits his skin, it feels _real_ – a subtle anchor, temporary relief from the terrible floating sensation in his stomach. So he waits, barely feeling a chill, and lets the rain soak him to the bone while all those official looking coppers – _his colleagues_ , he reminds himself sternly – secure and process the crime scene.

It feels like _hours_ before they're done.

"We're going back," finally says a blurry form by his shoulder. "Are you coming with us?"

He wipes the water off his eyes – Van Pelt peers back at him from under a green plastic overcoat, something the tech team probably lend her. He wonders idly why they never thought to give him one too.

Not that he would have taken them up on the offer.

"Yes," he decides. "But can you drop me off at my place on the way? I don't really need to be here."

"Sure. If you tell me where it is."

"No," interrupts Cho. "Van Pelt, take Rigsby and go back to the office, I'll join you in a few. Jane, you're coming with me."

"Okay," he says. "Hope you don't mind getting your seats wet."

"We'll cover them with plastic."

In the dark, with the muffled sound of water drops hitting the roof, the quickly fogging windows, and the gentle rocking motion of Cho's driving, it almost feels like a dream. He lets his unfocussed gaze follow barely seen lights across the street for a while, brushing aside the damp curls uncomfortably sticking to his neck – true to form, his companion isn't speaking, and he feels no need to break the silence just yet.

Cho, however, has patience and experience on his side – and when he realises they're moving in a loose circular pattern around town with no destination in sight, he knows if he doesn't speak first they'll be driving all night.

"Did you have something to tell me?" he says, sprawling himself further across the seat.

"Yes," answers Cho. "You've been moping all day."

"I don't _mope_. I _ruminate_. You of all people should know the difference."

"Call it what you like – you've been doing it."

"What's your point?"

They stop at a red light. Cho shoots him a glance, eyes gleaming like a cat.

"Missing Lisbon doesn't give you a free pass to be an ass."

He's suddenly very glad they're driving around instead of drinking tea in the bullpen. Spluttering would be such an undignified answer.

"I don't _miss_ her," he says – sharp voice, dark tone.

He pauses.

"She's only been gone for a day, anyway."

Even to his own ears, the muttered excuses sound feeble and overly defensive – Cho only quirks up an eyebrow before the lights turn green and his attention is on the road again.

"She told me how you tricked her into taking a vacation. Clever."

"Heh. That's what I do best. _Trick_ people."

"But now we're short-handed for two weeks. You can't keep clowning around on crime scenes."

"And why not?" he asks, feeling mulish.

"Because we need you. You're part of the team, Jane. Without your help, we're not gonna make it."

He lets his eyes wander away.

This is what he wished for. This is exactly what he has wanted to hear for years now – a proof that he's useful. That they need him. That he's not just a tag-along, tolerated because he has a useful skill set – that he genuinely has a place among them. And it's disheartening to realise that, as Cho utters the words so matter-of-factly, they don't fill the dark hole inside him craving that recognition. And they don't fill it, because –

– because –

 _Lisbon would never say those words aloud_.

– because what he craves isn't just recognition anymore.

"The ritualistic drawings on her body aren't ritualistic," he says, letting his head fall against the window. "They're – _meh_ , smoke and mirror. Inconsistent. They're there to cover a normal, _boring_ motive. What we're looking for is someone with a dramatic flair, with a sense of theatrics. Someone close to her who wanted something she didn't want to give. She was rich, no sign of sexual assault, so probably money."

"How d'you know she was rich? She was naked."

"Hair done professionally, nails well maintained, discrete but enticing make-up. Expensive skin lotion. She was well off."

"So – why someone close to her?"

"She was strangled."

"Crime of passion. Could be a boyfriend."

"But then her body was painted with esoteric symbols and dumped in an alley. Impersonal."

"Unless the boyfriend's a sociopath."

" _Meh_ ," he shrugs. "She wasn't the type to go out with a penniless boyfriend. You're looking for a relative or a friend. Close co-worker maybe. Flashy type. Perhaps an addict."

"Artist?"

"No, the markings would point to them too obviously. More like – publicist. Agent. Cosmetician."

"Okay."

"Happy now?"

"Yes."

"Good."

He pauses. Frowns. Mutters.

"I don't _mope_."

Cho smirks.

They drive in silence for a while, the agent's fingers lightly tapping the wheel in an irregular beat. His brain, always looking for patterns, quickly notices the taps are perfectly in sync with the water drops hitting the roof.

"Did you ever play drums?" he asks.

Cho glances at him sideways.

"Yeah – didn't think so," he hums, closing his eyes.

The rocking motion is getting to him.

"Don't fall asleep. We'll be there in five minutes."

"Back to the office?"

"Your place."

He grins. Opens his eyes again.

"You read my file!"

"I read everyone's file."

Oh, but that's not quite accurate. Cho's nostrils twitched – a slight, barely visible tell in the darkness, one he recognises only because of working with him every day.

"Not _everyone's_ ," he teases. "You left out – hmm. Yeah, no-brainer. You left out Lisbon's."

"I read Lisbon's.

"You did?"

He narrow his eyes. Cho's lips quirk up.

"No you didn't," he grins. "You respect her too much for that."

Cho offers no answer, but stops the car under the light post advertising his long-stay hotel. It's still raining.

"Get some sleep. See you tomorrow at eight."

"Bright and early," he sing-songs, opening the door.

"Hey."

"Hmm?"

"Don't forget to call Lisbon," says Cho – and that little smile on his lips looks _smug_ if he's not mistaken.

He chuckles.

"She told you about that? The daily reports?"

"She wanted to make sure someone would be there to remind you."

 _Typical_.

The thought cheers him up, however – something about Lisbon putting her preparations aside to leave Cho instructions about their deal _charms_ him.

Despite the slight to his Memory Palace.

"Well then. Better I get a move on that, right?"

Cho nods and he gets out, shivering when cold water hits his neck. With no desire left to enjoy the storm first-hand, he runs up the stairs and takes shelter inside – dripping everywhere on the carpet until his soaked clothes are hanging in the bathroom and he can curl under a heap of blankets, warm cup of tea waiting for him on the bedside table.

Then he picks up his phone.

"Hello?" says Lisbon's sleepy voice.

"Consultant Jane reporting for duty, ma'am!" he answers, as chipper as possible.

"Jane, what the hell? It's nearly 1:00 AM!"

 _Right._ _Different time zone. Should have remembered that.  
_

"I'm sorry, didn't mean to wake you up. We just got back from a crime scene. Body dump in an alley, fake ritualistic markings – you'd hate that one."

"Alright, just – just give me a minute there, I'll – "

He hears shuffling, and the voice of a young girl too far away to make out the words – then a door closes and she comes back whispering.

"Okay, let's do this. What did you say? Ritualistic _what?_ "

"Was that your niece?"

"Yeah, that was Annabeth. She says hello."

"She does?"

" _Jane!_ The case?"

"Don't worry about the case, Lisbon. You're in vacations! Enjoy your time off."

" _Are you kidding me?_ My brother is getting married tomorrow morning, I spent four hours climbing up trees to hang up flower decorations, you woke me up and _my eleven years old niece_ in the middle of the night after an exhausting day, and now you _don't_ want to tell me about the case?"

"Hey, you were the one who wanted me to call every night. I'm just keeping to my end of the bargain."

She takes a deep breath. He bites on his thumb to keep the mirth in check.

"Oh _no_. You _did_ something, didn't you? What did you do?"

"Nothing!"

"Come on, Jane."

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about."

 _"Out with it_ ," she growls.

"I may have pissed off Cho," he says, trying to keep the grin off his voice.

She's so _easy_ to rile up.

"What did you _do?_ "

"He, uh – may have said something about clowning around the crime scene, and that I shouldn't do it."

"And he's right," she sighs. "But that can't be all? What else should I know about?"

"Nothing at all!"

"If I ask Cho, will he agree with you?"

" _Lisbon_. You don't trust me? I'm wounded – I really am."

She produces all sorts of annoyed mutterings in the background, and this time he can't stop himself from chuckling.

"Everything's fine, I promise. _I promise!_ So, your niece – Annabeth right? Are you two having a good time?"

"It's great," she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice. "She's a great kid – with my brothers teaming up, I've heard more of her exploits in 24 hours than in the last three years. Jane, are you sure you're not up to something?"

"I'm always up to something, Lisbon, but none of my current plans are cause for your concern."

" _Very_ reassuring."

"I thought so too! How about your brother Stan, is he glad to get married tomorrow? Not getting cold feet, I hope?"

"What is this, gossip night?" she laughs.

"Just taking an interest, is all."

The noise she makes is a curious blend of a long-suffering sigh and a snort – but there's also something that sounds suspiciously like a hum of pleased, affectionate surprise.

"Stan is _happy_ ," she answers, with undertones of motherly pride she's probably unaware of. "Planning to start his own company, already got a loan from the bank. If you had seen him when he was a teen, you'd understand – everything was a joke, he'd do anything for a laugh, then one of his pranks would go too far and he'd get in trouble. _He grew up_. And Karen is so _good_ for him, you wouldn't believe it."

He smiles, enjoying Lisbon's uncharacteristic late-night chattiness. Swallows to ease the painful tightening of his throat, because he better than anyone knows what being loved by a strong and kind person can do to someone.

Or _should_ have done, in his case.

"What about the other ones?"

"Jimmy's good, too. I've met his girlfriend today, she's nice enough. A little shy, a little flighty – overall better than most of the previous ones I've met. He's planning to go live with her in Detroit next month, seems he got a job offer there. We'll see how _that_ pans out."

"And, uh – Tommy, is that it? What about him?"

She pauses.

"Haven't seen him yet. It's getting late, Jane, I really need to go back to bed."

 _Hmm_.

He didn't _mean_ to stumble on the mystery of her family problems, but it seems he did anyway.

"Talk to you tomorrow?" she adds.

"Do you _really_ want me to call you _every night?_ " he asks, eyes on the ceiling.

"Trying to back off on our deal?"

"No, it just seems like a waste of your time. Don't you want to focus on your family while you're up there?"

"I won't be able to focus on _anything_ if I keep wondering how many apologies I'll have to make on your behalf when I come back."

He grins.

"One day we'll have to work on those control issues of yours."

"Shut up!" she laughs. "Good night, Jane."

"Good night, Lisbon. Say hello to Annabeth for me."

She hums and hangs up – and he's left alone in a drab room, lukewarm tea beside him, rain still battering the window, grin slowly melting off his face until a blank frown take its place.

The silence is unsettling.

 _Cho was right_.

He drinks his tea quietly, eyes tracing the shimmering pattern of her name in his palm. It's worrying that she became somehow so entwined in his life that he would miss seeing her every day – he never needed a crutch before, except for the time he spent in the hospital, and stumbling now because she isn't around to help shoulder his grief _isn't acceptable_.

 _And what happened to 'It doesn't matter'?_

Yes. What happened to it?

Clenching and unclenching his teeth, he gets up, leaves his empty teacup in the sink. Comes back to bed with the new laptop he bought earlier – and after a few minutes lost figuring out how to open the device and connect the WiFi, he settles back against the pillows, smirking.

There _is_ one upside to Lisbon being far away from California, after all.

 _Bosco_S_ , he types in the login section of the Department of Justice network.

* * *

 **The next one is giving me a bit of trouble, so the current publication target is 'before July'.  
**

I'm aware that both Jane and Lisbon are just a tiny bit out of character in this chapter – that is by design. Jane killed a man for the first time and that trauma shouldn't be overlooked. As for Lisbon, though the shock of nearly dying and feeling responsible for her brother's drinking would be enough to disturb her sleeping patterns, at this point in time her therapist is dosing her coffee with Lorazepam to make her appear unstable. Neither of them have good emotional balance right now, so please bear with me. It shouldn't last much longer – after that last part, Jane will slowly find his footing back, and Lisbon will follow soon enough.

Thank you for your patience and support! =)


	8. Part 6

_**Disclaimer:**_ _ **As you probably guessed by now, this show and its characters aren't mine.**_

 **A/N:** Special thanks to **Thorntons** and **FiascoWay** who were fantastic and efficient beta-readers on parts of this chapter. All remaining mistakes are my own.

 **Warnings:** Unhealthy feeding habits, religious concepts used as swear words, alcoholism, mention of physical abuse and injuries (related to alcoholism). If any of this triggers you, please stay safe.

 **Spoilers:** Small allusion to 1.06 "Red Handed", and of course Lisbon's family as seen in 4.06 "Where in the world is Carmine O'Brien?" and 7.07 "Little Yellow House".

* * *

 **Kindred**  
 **Part 6**

The ceremony is beautiful.

Both coming from Catholic families, they were adamant about holding it in a church. They chose Karen's childhood one – something for which she's very grateful – and so that's where they gather together in the morning, just in time for the sun to shine through panes of stained glass and colour the whole congregation. Stan looks prim and proper in his black tuxedo, overwhelmed as soon as his lovely bride appears – and Karen is radiant on the arm of her father, all white silk and lace falling to the ground, a peach-coloured roses bouquet in her hands.

They look so happy that the worst part of herself can't help feeling just a slight twinge of jealousy in between the waves of pride and love and joy. But she quickly crushes the feeling – Stan is _happy_ – and soon enough the priest blesses them, Annabeth gleefully throws rose petals with the other bridesmaids at the door, and it's time to move to the park where Lisbon parties were held for as long as she can remember.

And then, of course, everything is chaos.

Beautiful, cheerful, _perfect_ chaos. Children running amok between groups of teenagers laughing together. Friends and cousins cooking food on the grill. Elderly couples helping pass out salad and chips to everyone. And right in the middle of it, Stan and Karen under the flower canopy they hung up the previous afternoon, stealing kisses every time they look at each other.

Beautiful chaos, but chaos nonetheless – and after two hours helping with the drinks, introducing herself to Karen's family and reconnecting with cousins she hasn't seen in years, she's grateful when Jimmy thrusts a plate in her hands and directs her to an unoccupied bench.

"You still like cheeseburgers and potato salad, right? Living in California didn't turn you into a _goat cheese-pineapple kebab_ kinda girl?" he says, grinning.

She snorts.

" _Please_ , as if. Gimmy that beer, will ya?"

Careful to balance the plate on her knees, she takes a small bite – carefully chews the creamy potato morsel before swallowing. Waits. Sighs in relief when it doesn't immediately trigger nausea, and repeats the process with the cheeseburger. Multiple times, alternating one and the other, taking deep breaths between every bite.

Jimmy watches her meticulous eating with a concerned frown.

"You're not – I mean – are you okay, T?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Why?"

"You, uh – you're very thin."

He hesitates, take a breath.

"A bit _too_ thin. So I was – _concerned_ , and wondering if – "

She glances up at him. He shuts up.

"I don't have an eating disorder, Jimmy, if that's what you're getting at. I'm just a bit nauseous these days, is all."

He blinks. She rolls her eyes.

"I'm not pregnant either," she adds, chuckling.

"Eh, that's a shame," he grins. "I'd enjoy more nieces and nephews."

"I'm sure Stan and Karen will provide that in no time."

"Yeah. So, uh, what's up then? You don't look like you have a bug."

"Meh," she answers, waving a hand dismissively. "Had a few stressful weeks, is all. Nothing to worry about, I promise."

Her brother narrows his eyes, and for a second there she feels like he's _reading_ her – with the same expression Jane has when he's scanning a suspect, or trying to suss answers out of her. She opens her mouth to tell him to _stop it_ , but he's faster.

"That why they sent you off on vacations?"

"What are you talking about? They didn't _send me off_. I _took_ time off for the wedding. We just closed a case, they owed me a few days."

"More like a few weeks, I bet," chuckles Jimmy.

 _More like a few months, actually._

"But, hey – come on, T. You never take time off, we all know that. So what changed?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You here? Serious breach of habits. You barely even call for birthdays, only come around on odd years for the holidays."

"That's not true!"

"So it's not a last minute thing?"

"Of course not!"

"Then why did you just show up? Why didn't you say you were coming?"

There it is again, that wave of suffocating guilt she can never push away long enough when it comes to her brothers. And Jimmy, who used to be the quiet, perceptive, overlooked one until he grew up into his own, clearly hasn't lost his touch.

"See?" he says, quietly – and the mulish air of him would be better suited to a ten years old.

The same ten years old who used to stare, silent, every time she pulled on her sleeves to conceal a bruise.

 _This is surreal. I leave one of them back home, I find another one up here. Two, counting Annabeth._

Her hand climbs of its own volition to her forehead, rubs that spot between her eyes that always seem to be pulsing these days. There's no way she's getting into explaining the whole mess of piled-up crap from the last few weeks – or anything from the _last year_ for that matter. But her brother is watching her carefully, noticing and cataloguing her reactions as if she was a poker opponent, and it's been such a long time since she won a round against him.

 _Alright. Censored version then._

"You want to know what happened? _Fine_. Work has been stressful for a while, so a colleague convinced me to take some time off to sort things out. I found myself with enough time to come and see you – _because I missed you_ – so I came. End of story."

"That's _not_ the end at all! What happened to stress you out?"

"You know – work. It's boring," she warns, hoping he'll back off.

"You're a cop, T. Your notion of 'boring' is skewed. Try me," he grins instead.

" _Okay_ then – don't say I didn't warn you. A few weeks ago, we had a case. It turned – bad."

"How bad?"

" _Very_ bad. We lost a lead on a case my team has been working for the last five years."

"Which one?"

"Serial killer. Don't think the papers got the story across states. Calls himself Red John."

"The smiley face killer?"

"Yeah. You heard of him?"

"What are you, _nuts?_ I do my homework, Teresa. If there's a serial killer targeting women _for years_ in the same state my only sister lives in, _you_ _bet_ I've heard of him."

She averts her eyes.

"But I didn't know you were leading the team in charge of that case," he adds, impressed. "Holy crap, sis!"

" _Jimmy!_ Watch your mouth."

"Sorry. But isn't Red John, like, the worst serial killer in California? And you're the detective in charge of his capture? Wow. I mean – _wow_. I knew you were good, but I didn't know you were _that_ good."

"Yeah well, I'm not in charge anymore. They took the case away from us."

"Why the hell would they do that?"

"Because I messed up! _I'm_ the one who lost our lead. So they gave it to someone I used to work with. And it's _fine_ – I mean, he's good, he'll get the job done, but if I didn't – "

Sounds of glass crashing behind her makes her jump, interrupting her train of thought. Standing there is Annabeth, a small broken bottle of sparkling water gushing all over her feet.

"They took away your case?" she repeats, her voice a mixture of horrified pain and consternation. "That's – that's _not right!_ "

 _Oh, God._

"They can't do that! Why would they _do_ that?"

"Annabeth – "

"You're the best! Why would they do that when _they know_ you close _all_ your cases? Now they – they'll _never_ – "

"Annabeth, _it's okay!_ It doesn't matter who's in charge."

"Yes it does! You promised me! You _promised_ , and now you won't – _you're just like dad! He never keeps his promises, and you're just the same!_ "

It happens so quickly she has no time to react – her niece's face crumbles and tears start spilling from her eyes, rolling over her cheeks like a waterfall of heartbreak. Jimmy gets to her first, plucking her up from the ground and tucking her in his arms, making comforting sounds as she wails against his shoulder. And she can only stay there frozen as he carries her further away from the party, helpless to follow or walk away until Stan and Karen come running to her.

"What happened?" demands Stan, lines of worry she never noticed deepening around his mouth.

"It's – _God_. This is my fault. Jimmy and I were talking, we didn't know Annabeth was there. She overheard us and she – "

She gestures toward the crying girl, unable to make out the words without her self-control slipping away.

"What were you two talking about? Was it Tommy?"

"No. No, it was – work-related problems I had recently."

"Okay. I'm gonna go see if Jimmy needs help," mutters Stan. "You two stay here, okay? She doesn't need to be crowded."

 _This is a disaster._

"I'm _so_ sorry. If I had known she was there – "

But Karen shakes her head.

"I'm not surprised. She's been doing so good these pasts weeks – too good, I thought. She never cried, never said a word. Don't be too hard on yourself, Teresa. It's not your fault – she idolises you, and with everything that happened recently, the slightest provocation would have been enough to trigger an explosion."

" _No_ , it's because – _what?_ What do you mean?"

Her sister-in-law walks to the bench she and Jimmy were sitting on just minutes ago, beckoning her over. But she refuses, starts pacing instead – she can still hear her niece's painful hiccups from afar.

"She came to our door one night, about three weeks ago. It was late, she was alone and crying. Had blood all over her face – wouldn't talk about what happened until Stan tried to call the cops. You have to understand. We thought she was raped."

"She wasn't though, was she?"

The idea is too horrifying to contemplate.

"No, she wasn't – thank God for that, at least. She told us she escaped from home because her father was trashing the living room."

" _What?_ "

"Yeah. Apparently Tommy got upset over something, started flinging things around. She got afraid, ran away."

"Did he – _hurt_ her? You said she was bleeding!"

"No, she said that was an accident. Cuts on the face always bleed a lot so it was impressive, and she keeps picking the scab so it's not healing as fast as it should, but it wasn't serious."

 _But it could have been. And that's on me. Again._

"Stan went to check out on Tommy the next morning," adds Karen. "I think he was planning to knock some sense into him. But he came back with a shiner and a backpack full of Annabeth's things, said he wouldn't allow her to go back there as long as her father was drinking."

"Of course not. _God_. What about her mother, isn't she in town?"

"Unreachable. Annabeth said she's on a trip somewhere with her new boyfriend, won't be back before school starts again."

The remnants of congealed potato salad sitting in her forgotten plate are making her queasy.

 _One phone call._

All it took was one phone call at the wrong moment – _one name in the wrong ear_ – to trigger this whole fiasco. Tommy drinking. Tommy scaring his daughter away. Annabeth getting hurt. Even her meltdown, just now – pent-up emotions caused by her actions, explosion caused by her words.

 _I have to make this right._

"Listen, I'm gonna talk to Stan, send him back here – it's your wedding day, you deserve to enjoy yourselves. Jimmy and I can take care of this."

"It's fine, we can wait," says Karen, her smile rueful. "She's family – and a little bit like our daughter now, in a way. I just want her to be okay – and _safe_. You know."

And _that_ , she can agree with wholeheartedly.

She finds her brothers talking quietly near the river, Annabeth nowhere in sight – she nearly panics until she passes by Jimmy's car and notices the small sleeping form in the back seat.

"Hey," she calls to them quietly.

Jimmy waves her over.

"She fell asleep soon after she calmed down," he says.

"Yeah, I saw. Is she okay?"

"She'll be fine."

She bites her lip.

"Karen told me what happened with Tommy. Stan, why didn't you tell me when you called?"

"We didn't want to worry you."

" _Worry me?!_ God! What's next? Getting yourself arrested and letting me learn about it through the grapevine?"

Both of her brothers avert their eyes and shuffle their feet, and suddenly she has the irrational urge to pull their ears and send them to their rooms.

"You live in California, T. There was nothing you could do," says Stan, stubborn.

" _If you had told me, I would have jumped in the first plane!_ "

Jimmy frowns, crosses his arms on his chest.

"Really? You would have taken time off to come up here, without being asked? Without being forced to?"

They're both staring at her in disbelief, and she stops – considers the question. Would she? If she had known, would she really have left everything behind to come and take care of her brothers, her niece? The answer comes strong and quick, leaving no place to hesitation.

"We're _family_. I know I haven't been around lately. _I'm sorry_. I'm sorry if that made you think I didn't care about you. But I do – I _do_ care. And you can bet your asses I'll do _everything_ I can to be there when you need me."

She swallows.

"Just like I always did – before."

Neither of them answers – at least not in words. Jimmy shifts a bit closer to Stan. Stan puts his arm around Jimmy's shoulders. All three of them stay unmoving, facing each other as a cold wind rises from the river, ruffles their hair and clothes. Allowing them to blame it for their eyes misting over.

"You, uh – " she says after a bit, interrupting herself to clear her voice. "You should go back. It's your wedding day."

"Yeah."

Stan's voice sounds as raw as she feels inside. He doesn't move. She doesn't try to make him.

"What are you gonna do? About Tommy, I mean? Did you have a plan?" asks Jimmy – the hair sticking up on his head making him look very young.

"No. No plan. But – I'll talk to him, or try at least. Take responsibility for my mistakes," she says, biting her bottom lip.

Because she never shied away from cleaning her own messes – or those of her friends, loved ones, _and_ pain-in-the-ass consultant, even as she yells at them for it.

"What do you mean?"

Both her brothers are frowning – and she realises _she completely forgot_.

They don't know what happened.

They don't know what she did.

She bite harder on her lip. Tastes copper on her tongue.

"I called Tommy three weeks ago, early evening. What I said to him, it pushed him over the edge. All this, his drinking, what happened to Annabeth – this is my fault. If I didn't – "

" _Stop right there!_ " Stan interrupts, suddenly furious. "You were halfway across the country, T. There's no way it's your fault!

"Didn't you hear me? _He was fine before I called!_ If I didn't talk to him that day, he wouldn't be drinking again. He'd be here, having a good time with his daughter! With _us!_ "

"Did you put a bottle of booze in his hands? Did you hold it to his lips and force him to swallow? _No!_ So don't you dare, T. _Don't you dare_ say it's your fault, because it's not. That's on _him_."

"Besides," add Jimmy. "You're not responsible for his relapse. Tommy started drinking months ago, when he lost his job."

 _What?_

Her lungs are crying for air, but she can't breathe – not through the thick fabric of anguished dread cloaking her throat.

"I – "

She stops, licks her lips – tries to find a little moisture in her unbearably dry mouth.

"I asked him about his work," she says, almost to herself. "He didn't say anything. Lied to my face. Peachy – that's what he said. Told me everything was ' _peachy_ '."

Stan and Jimmy glance at each other, but keep silent – and suddenly _fury_ pierces through the sadness and remnants of guilt, leaving burnt ashes and tatters in its wake.

 _My own family! Am I really that hard to talk to?_

Swallowing it back down is one of the hardest thing she ever did – only with years of experience pushing her emotions aside, and the knowledge that _this isn't the time for anger_ , does she manages to keep her head over the dark waters of rage.

"Okay, look – let's do this later," she says, voice levelled and calm, a far cry from her internal state. "Right now, you two need to go back – I'm sure Karen is getting worried. Go. I'll stay with Annabeth until she wakes up, see how she feels. Do you have your phones with you?"

"I do," says Jimmy.

"I'll text you. Now _go_."

And her brothers must see _something_ on her face, because they don't even try to argue with her – they nod and leave, silently and efficiently, Stan's arm still over Jimmy's shoulders. She watches them until their retreating backs disappear between the trees – then she walks to the car in which her niece is sleeping.

 _Was_ sleeping – isn't anymore.

One deep breath in and she opens the door, slips inside. Annabeth, now sitting with her head against the opposite window, doesn't acknowledge her presence. Calling forth guilt to replace anger is harder than she expected – but her niece should only be made target to emotions she deserves, and anger isn't one of them.

The silence stretches thin and wide, enfolds them fragile as dragonfly wings until she reaches out, two fingers on small shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she offers.

Annabeth doesn't answer.

"They told me what happened with your dad. I'm sorry for that, too."

"Don't wanna talk about it."

"You don't have to talk. Just listen."

The child turns listless eyes to her, and that's a step at least.

"What happened to you was unfair. Nobody should go through that, let alone you. And I'm sorry you had to. I'm sorry I wasn't there to protect you."

She swallows.

"I'm sorry I couldn't stop any of it before you got hurt."

Her niece shrugs – a tiny, helpless little move she would have missed were she not paying attention.

"There was nothing you could do, anyway."

Her small voice is quiet. She bites her lip – flinches from the pain.

"I know. Still wish I did, though."

Annabeth doesn't answer, but moves over and slips her hand in hers, lets her head fall against her shoulder.

"I'm not gonna break the promise I made you," she adds. "I swear to you. I'll do everything I can."

The child's eyes are dark and wide, something a little like hope shining through.

"How?"

"I'll find a way."

"Yeah?"

"Promise."

Annabeth snuggles between her arms and she kisses the top of her head, throat tightening.

"I'm sorry I said you were like dad. You're not."

"It's okay. You were upset. I'm gonna go and talk to him, okay? Try to get him to listen."

"I miss him."

"I'm sure he misses you too."

"Uncle Stan and Uncle Jimmy are nice, but – it's not the same. I can't be sad around them, they never know what to do."

She sighs. Of course they don't.

"What about your Aunt Karen? Can you talk to her?"

"Dunno."

"Perhaps you should try. I'm sure she'd listen to you, at least."

"Yeah. She's nice. I wish you lived here, though."

"Sometimes I wish I did, too."

And she's surprised by just how true that is.

They keep silent for a while.

"I love you, kid," she whispers, when it threatens to become oppressive.

"I'm not a kid!"

She chuckles.

"I love you, Annabeth," she repeats, tightening her arms around her shoulders.

"I love you too. But – I don't think I like my name much," she says, crinkling her nose.

The chuckles becomes a laugh. That's good – that's _great_. That can work nicely as a distraction from heartbreak, and to make her smile again she'll do anything.

"You don't like your name?"

"It's _stuffy_."

"It was your grandmother's."

" _Exactly!_ "

"Alright then – what do you wanna be called, huh?"

"I dunno," says Annabeth, shrugging – tiny shoulder sliding against her ribs.

She bites her lips to stop herself from giggling, shifts a bit on her seat. Tickling isn't allowed, even the accidental kind – not unless she's the one doing it.

"Did you want a diminutive of your first name or another nickname entirely? 'Cause I can keep calling you Home-Run if you want," she teases.

" _Nooo_ ," laughs her niece. "Not Home-Run!"

"What then? Betty?"

" _Nooo!_ That's even _more_ stuffy!"

"Beth?"

" _Meh_."

"Anna?"

"No. Perhaps, uh – Annie?"

"Annie is nice," she smiles. "Very suitable to a growing teenage girl. So – you want me to call you Annie now?"

"Yeah, I think so. It's better than _Annabeth_ , anyway."

" 'Annabeth' _is_ kind of a mouthful," she grins. "For a tiny little thing like you!"

"Hey! _No, not the tickles! Stop, stop!_ "

When she does, they end up snuggling even closer to each other. Annabeth – _Annie now_ , she reminds herself – sprawls herself over her lap, huge beaming smile eating half of her face, all bare feet and rumpled dress, sandals forgotten under a seat. And the girl's shining eyes, full of vitality and innocent mischief, are just the final proof she needed to stop worrying.

"Wanna go back?" she asks, a bubble of tenderness taking over her heart. "Your uncles are probably waiting for us."

Annabeth – _Annie_ – lets her head fall against her shoulder.

"Can we stay here? Just a little more?"

She smiles, kisses her forehead.

"Of course."

She holds the girl against her heart, rests her cheek against the top of her head, closes her eyes. For a second – just a small, tiny second – wishes she was _hers_.

And that's when anger slowly trickles back in.

* * *

"Twenty bet they aren't," says Rigsby, trying to catch popcorn with his mouth.

"Twenty bet they are," says Cho, nose buried in 'Wuthering Heights'.

"Van Pelt, tie-breaker?"

"I don't bet on those kinds of things!"

Rigsby throws another piece in the air. It falls near his couch.

"What do you think, Jane?"

He keeps his eyes closed, still pretending to sleep – mind hard at work cataloguing all the ways he could trick Hicks into giving him an update on _his_ case.

"He's sleeping," says Cho.

"No he's not," says Van Pelt. "I saw him flinch just now. Jane! Hey!"

He makes a show of yawning and turning on his side, rubbing his eyes.

"Who disturbs my slumber?"

"You're so full of it," laughs Rigsby.

He grins, hauls himself to a sitting position.

"What are you betting on now?"

"Lisbon's brother," says Cho. "The one who got married yesterday."

"What about him?"

"I say his wife and him are soulmates. Rigsby says they're not. Van Pelt – "

"I can talk for myself, _thanks_."

"Was going to say you didn't want to bet."

"I don't!"

He chuckles.

"You still have an opinion," he says. "And _I_ bet you agree with Cho."

"Well – no. I mean – I _hope_ they are. But I wouldn't _bet_ on that!"

"Fair enough."

"What about you?" says Rigsby.

"Oh, I don't see the point of betting," he answers, getting up.

"Why not? It's harmless fun, there's nothing wrong with that!"

"Of course," he smiles. "I don't see a problem with _taking bets_. I just don't see the point of _betting_ , not when I could just ask."

They all stop and stare as he pats his pockets, looking for his phone.

"You're not gonna call Lisbon?" asks Van Pelt, looking shocked.

"Why shouldn't I?"

"You don't seriously expect her to just _tell_ you, right?" says Rigsby.

"Why shouldn't she?" he grins.

They exchange a look while he dials.

"Your funeral, man," says Cho.

It rings so many times he considers just hanging up, until he finally hears the click of open communication on the other end of the line.

"Hi! Teresa Lisbon's phone, who's talking?" says a young girl's voice.

His three colleagues suddenly look terrified – and he wonders for a second what's going on, until he figures out it _might_ have something to do with the Cheshire grin slowly sprouting on his face.

"Why hello there. My name is Patrick Jane, can I speak to Teresa?"

The girl _squeaks_.

"Is this Annabeth?" he asks, chuckling.

"It's _Annie_ ," she answers, her voice still a little high from over-excitement.

He ignores the pang that name brings up – pushes back on the memories of his wife's sunny smiles and warm brown eyes, and forces himself to learn new associations, create new paths in his Memory Palace.

" _Annie_ , huh? Alright. I like that."

"How d'you know my name?"

"Your aunt talks a lot about you. Is she around?"

"She's – I don't know? Outside I guess? _Uncle Jimmy, where's Aunt Reese?_ "

Healthy set of lungs on that girl – he rubs his ear, sits back on his couch and puts her on speaker. Cho, Rigsby and Van Pelt still look slightly horrified, but they're all inching closer anyway.

"He says she's at the park with our cousins," says Annabeth, coming back to a normal tone of voice. "Is this an emergency, or did you want to leave a message?"

"Ah, you know, actually – "

Rigsby hides behind a stack of forms.

Van Pelt silently mouths off something that looks like 'she's gonna kill you'.

Cho's expression doesn't change.

His grin widens.

" – actually, you might be the right person to help us settle something."

"Me?"

"That's right. See, my colleagues and I have a little wager going on, and we were wondering if you could tell us if your uncle Stan and his lovely new wife are soulmates?"

"I don't think I should be discussing this with you. It's _private_."

They all bite their lips to stop themselves from laughing out loud – hearing Lisbon's voice coming out of a child's throat is both eerie and hilarious.

"You're absolutely right," he grins. "Perhaps, in that case, you could ask your uncle if he would agree to tell us?"

"I guess. Wait a minute. _Uncle Staaaan?_ "

"Stop while you're ahead, man," mutters Cho.

"When did you ever see him stop before he got what he wanted?" answers Van Pelt.

Rigsby, it appears, is still trying to muffle his laughs behind his forms.

"Hi, this is Stan Lisbon," says a man's voice. "Annie said you wanted to know if me and Karen were soulmates?"

"Yes, exactly," he grins.

"And, uh – who are you again?"

"Me? My name is Patrick Jane, I'm – "

" _Jane_ , huh?" interrupts Stan. "Why does that name sound familiar?"

He raises his eyebrows. Tries to ignore the small pang of fear, because _Lisbon wouldn't openly talk about that, right?_

"Oh yeah, I know who you are. You're Teresa's troublemaker," says the man, laughing. "Should have known."

"Troublemaker?"

"The consultant, right? Yeah – my sis, she talks _a lot_ about you when we ask about her job. Says you're a right pain in the ass. Coming from T, that's usually a compliment."

He blinks. All three of his team mates are laughing at him openly now.

 _She talks about me? To her brothers?_

He blinks again.

 _I – did not expect that._

"So uh, why is it you wanted to know about me and Karen exactly?"

"Uh, yes," he says, clearing his voice – quickly covering his confusion. "We have a little friendly wager going on here, so I figured, why not ask? There's money in play."

"Oh yeah? How much?" Stan laughs.

"Ah, a twenty I think."

Rigsby nods.

"Wow. What does my sister says about that?"

" _Stan? What are you doing with my phone?_ "

"Speak of the devil. Hey, T! Your team is a riot, did you know that?"

There's a scuffle at the other end of the line. All three of his colleagues are slowly turning white at the idea of being caught snooping into Lisbon's business – with a chuckle, he stops the speaker mode and brings back the phone to his ear.

" _Give me that! Stan, damnit!_ "

"Hi, this is Jimmy Lisbon," says another male voice. "Patrick Jane, right? My brother and I wanted to know if any of the stories are true?"

"Which ones?" he asks, grinning again.

"Ah, well – for starters, Teresa told us that you won half a mil' at poker tables that time you had a case in a casino. In like, three days?"

"Oh yeah, that one," he chuckles. "All true, I'm afraid."

" _Stan, if you don't move your ass out of the way, I'm gonna kick it six ways to Sunday!_ "

"Wow," says Jimmy. "Any chance you and my sister could, uh, you know – get together?2

"Uh – _what?_ " he says, taken aback. "No. No, we're not like that."

" _Jimmy, give me that!_ "

"Shame, I'd really like to play cards with you, man! Any way you can fly up here with her next Thanksgiv – _aaaaah uncle uncle uncle!_ "

" _Give. Me. That. Phone! Right now!_ "

New scuffle – this one just long enough for him to gather his wits again.

"Jane," she says, obviously seething. "What the hell?!"

"Hey Lisbon," he greets her cheerfully. "You seem to be having a good time."

" _Tell him we're not soulmates!_ "

"Shut up, Stan!" she yells. "Jane, what were you thinking, calling my brothers?!"

"What were _you_ thinking, leaving your phone behind?"

" _Don't_ try and turn this over on me!"

"I'm not! I was calling you. It's not _my_ fault you weren't there to pick up."

"Why didn't you tell them to get me? This is _not okay_ , Jane! You don't mess with my family, _ever!_ "

 _Aaaalright. You've had your fun, time for some damage control now_.

He gets up from his couch, leaving the bullpen behind – Rebecca greets him as he passes her, and he waves a little just as he ducks into an empty observation room.

"Lisbon," he says, in calming tones. "I wasn't messing with them, I swear."

"What were you doing, then?" she asks, uneasy.

"We don't have a case right now, it's boring. You know how it gets in the bullpen when we're bored, right? Cho starts reading romance novels, Van Pelt spends all her time on Soulbook, Rigsby tosses popcorn in the air – "

"And tries to catch it with his mouth, yes. And _you_ cause trouble."

There's just a hint of teasing in her words, and he silently lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Not this time. I was just sleeping on my couch – "

" _Pretending_ to sleep, I bet."

" – when they started talking about their favourite subject – "

"Soulmates, again?" she sighs.

He grins.

"Right. They were wondering if your brother and his new wife were soulmates. So I figured I'd call and ask you. Your niece picked up."

She makes a tiny unhappy noise.

" _That_ was none of your business – that goes for _all_ of you. Next time, don't chat. Ask them to come and get me, or leave a message and hang up."

And whatever her unsaid thoughts are – 'I don't want the different areas of my life intersecting with each other', or 'I don't want my family to be involved with you', or 'You've taken over too much of my life already, leave me this privacy' – he hears them all.

"Alright," he says. "I promise I won't talk to them again. Not unless it's an emergency, or without your consent."

The noise is more disbelief than unhappiness now.

"So, they said you've been talking about me?" he teases after a few seconds, because the silence is becoming heavy.

"Shut up," she says – and he can hear the reluctant smile in her voice. "Annabeth's been drilling me for years now about what's it like, being a cop. You're the best cautionary tale I could think of."

"And here I thought you enjoyed our partnership!"

"When you're not causing trouble, I do. Unfortunately, trouble is mostly what you are."

"Hm, perhaps. But I bet you have the best Thanksgiving stories, right?"

She chuckles.

They hang up a couple minutes later, and he makes a short trip to the kitchen, feeling parched. The bullpen is oddly quiet when he comes back with a cup of tea – so much that he stops in the threshold, eyes narrowing reflexively.

All three of them are hard at work. Head down, seemingly absorbed in the forms he's filling, Rigsby's shoulders are hunched and his spine curved further than usual, as if trying to make himself smaller. Cho, outwardly perfectly normal and unflappable, didn't acknowledge his presence with his customary glance up. Van Pelt sits with her back rigidly straight, typing strings of words and numbers as fast as she can on her computer, as if lost in concentration.

A normal sight – except for the fact that they closed their last case two days ago, and finished with the paperwork yesterday afternoon.

They don't _have_ work to do right now.

The silence hanging over them has its own form, heavy and crushing, and for one irrational second he finds himself checking out his palm – _just to be sure_. But _her_ name shimmers silver as usual, no sign of scarring, no burning on his skin, and the memory of her laugh still fresh in his ears.

 _Okay._

"Lisbon's brother said they weren't soulmates. I believe Rigsby wins," he says loudly, walking to his couch and settling down, leaving his cup on the side table.

Rigsby flinches. Cho doesn't react at all.

"That's great!" squeaks Van Pelt.

He grins, and lets silence fall back on the room.

Waits.

Cho is oddly the first to crack – stretches his back, shuffles his paperwork, everything just a tad too deliberate to be natural.

"So what happened?" he booms, enjoying the way they all flinch this time. "I could pry it off you, but wouldn't it be easier if you just came clean about whatever information you're trying to hide from me? It's not like you're doing a good job of it, you know."

Rigsby and Van Pelt exchange a look, lightly blushing.

"Oh come on. Don't tell me you've engaged in a three-way encounter with each other in the five minutes I've been gone?"

" _What?_ I'd never do that!"

"You're insane."

"With _Cho?_ That's sick. No offence, man."

"None taken."

"Well, that's a relief," he chuckles. " 'Cause _I_ wouldn't mind, but _Lisbon_ – _phew!_ Wouldn't want to be there when she learns about it."

Cho looks amused – the other two, slightly green around the gills. Probably now considering the 'legal' consequences of giving in to romantic impulses, if the way they carefully avoid looking at each other is any indication.

That won't matter in the end, of course. He's surprised they managed to keep their paws off each other that long already.

He takes a sip of tea.

"Well?"

As much as he enjoys their unease, this is getting tiring.

"Jane _here?_ Colour me surprised," says Minelli, suddenly appearing beside Van Pelt, who startles and drops her mouse on the floor.

"Is there a reason I shouldn't be on my couch today?"

"Expected you to be sniffing around the crime scene, annoying Bosco's team in the process. Glad to know I can now count you among the grown-ups."

Rigsby telegraphing 'abort' motions to their boss would be amusing if he didn't finally understand what they learned – probably from Rebecca, she was around minutes ago – while he was talking with Lisbon.

 _I need air._

"Excuse me."

He leaves his teacup on the table and gets up – finds himself near his car a short time later with no recollection of getting out of the building. Considers the idea of driving aimlessly for a while, then puts it aside – he still has an overpowering urge to _pace_ , to exhaust his restless energy before it completely shuts down his thinking process. So he starts walking, lets his feet guide him in the neighbourhood streets while he turns his attention inwards.

Red John killing again so soon after the Plaskett's girl doesn't come as a surprise, not really. They both suffered set-backs at Sparrows Peak that day – failed to meet face-to-face, failed to subdue each other, failed to prove who was the smartest in that room. Not to mention all the signs pointing to Red John still being there shortly before back-up arrived. _He nearly got caught_ – that alone would be a significant bruise to his ego, enough to trigger a frenzy of murders in the upcoming months.

Just over three weeks to brace himself – to convince himself he was prepared for it. Prepared for the sight and smell of fresh blood smeared on white walls, for the tears and screams of surviving relatives, for his own guilt and horror to crash down on him. As sad, as _insensitive_ as it seems, it should have been enough. Would have been enough, _if only Minelli had kept him on the case_.

He was ready to deal with blood, tears and horror again.

He wasn't ready to deal _with their absence_. And the lack of information is slowly, utterly eating him from the inside out.

Anger rises when he thinks about Cho, Rigsby and Van Pelt trying to conceal this from him. Everyone knows he doesn't bother keeping up with current events anymore – he has no patience left for TV reporters trying their hands at showmanship on other people's misfortune, and anything relevant he overhears in the break room anyway. He should have known not procuring his information first-hand would come back and bite him one day.

But that fades, too – their misguided attempt to protect him came from a good place, even if he resents it, and he honestly can't be bothered thinking about that because at the moment there's only enough space for one thing in his mind.

Newspapers.

Television.

Radio.

Computer with an internet connection.

He needs to get his hands on at least one of those things, _right now_.

Thankfully his feet got the idea before he did, and he gets off autopilot just in time to find himself in a busy street, next to a small sports bar.

"No alcohol before noon," says the barman as he walks in. "But we make a mean burger, if you're up for an early lunch."

He shakes his head. The giant television behind the counter displays a tennis match two women with grey hair watch with rapt attention between forkfuls of salad. Further back in the room, three men in their mid-twenties are playing pool.

"Do you have today's newspapers?"

"Sure. Here."

"Did you hear about the latest Red John murder?" he asks, scanning the headlines.

He flips the first page, then the second – nothing. Either the victim was found too late to be in today's edition, or the medias didn't get ahold of the news yet.

"The body in the inn? Yeah yeah, I did. All over the mid-morning news. Gruesome thing, that."

One woman lets her fork fall noisily in her plate, throwing him a dirty look. He couldn't care less.

"Did you catch where it happened?" he asks.

"Yeah, somewhere in Napa County. Those poor bastards, it's always everything or nothing around there – years of silence, not a crime, then _bam!_ Serial killers. Happened with the Zodiac, too."

"Napa County? Anything more precise?"

"Uh, Yountville I think. Some place near the Veteran's home. Why?"

"No reason. Thanks."

He dashes out, runs back to the parking lot – if he leaves now and doesn't encounter too much traffic, he can be there in just over an hour.

Cho is waiting for him beside his car, arms crossed on his chest.

"Don't do anything stupid," he says, as soon as he's close enough to hear.

"Get out of my way."

Cho doesn't move.

"Jane, we're off the case. You can't go to the crime scene."

"Says who?"

"Says _me_."

"That's not a convincing argument."

"Don't make me call Lisbon."

He snorts.

"Is that supposed to _scare_ me? Don't make me laugh. She's still in Chicago, what do you expect her to do? Even if she was here, she wouldn't be able to stop me."

"Yeah. But if I call her because you're being an idiot she'll cut her vacations short, and you're the one who sent her there in the first place."

He opens his mouth, about to tell Cho exactly how little he cares for that threat, but then stops himself – because suddenly he remembers he doesn't _need_ to rush to the scene. Bosco and his team are working there right now, ready to deny him access and cause all sorts of trouble for him if he so much as shows the tip of his nose in Napa County.

Cho's right – going _now_ probably isn't the best idea.

Going _after hours_ , then sneaking under any kind of yellow tape _Agent Bosco_ saw fit to wrap around the crime scene, _that_ would be the best option. Waiting until tomorrow would be even better. He can probably even do it without disturbing the seals, if he puts his mind to it. Letting Cho believe his laughable manipulations are working is just bonus – they all deserve a little payback for trying to hide things from him in the first place.

 _Can't wait to see his face when I tell him all about that crime scene_.

He taps one finger against his lips, then smirks.

"Okay," he says, before sauntering away.

Cho freezes in surprise, then scrambles behind him.

"Just like that."

"Well, you make a good point – Lisbon really deserves her vacation, I won't be the one to deny her that much needed rest."

Cho narrows his eyes.

"I don't believe you."

He grins, then shrugs – holds the door for him upon reaching the entrance. Cho's suspicious glances, quickly joined by Rigsby's and Van Pelt's, follow him until after lunch as he lies on his couch, legs stretched all the way and hands on his stomach. Closing his eyes and pretending to sleep is an easy, practised manoeuvre – as long as Rigsby doesn't throw popcorn at him – and soon enough all three of his colleagues are talking quietly among themselves, leaving him time to _think_. Leaving him time to realise –

– twice now Cho used Lisbon's name to try and control him.

Which means either he let himself be a lot more obvious about using her as a crutch than he thought – an alarming thought, with even more alarming ramifications – or Cho is aware of _things_.

 _Things_ he really shouldn't be aware of.

 _Which of us gave ourselves away?_

Blaming Lisbon would be so easy – she _is_ the worst liar he's ever met – but probably a little unfair too. After all, he's been out of sorts in the last few weeks. She, on the other hand, played her role fine when they were working to trap Hardy, and her attitude confused him for _well_ over a month before he figured out –

– what he should have figured out on their very first meeting.

Though that last one probably speaks more of his own unwillingness to look for the signs than of her concealing skills – which in turn speaks of a problematic lack of awareness on his part.

 _Again_.

No matter which one of them gave something away – two wake-up calls in the same _hour_ is enough to have him rethink his own attitude anyway.

If only to nip Cho's assumptions in the bud.

* * *

From experience, she knows planning an intervention for an alcoholic relative requires to be calm and focussed, so as not to let them pull her into an argument.

But waiting until her anger with Tommy abates seems like an impossible task.

She tries everything. Waiting a day. Waiting _two_ days. Distracting herself with Annabeth's – _Annie's_ – chatter and video games. Trying to convince Stan and Karen to go on a honeymoon. Watching and cheering for the Cubs with Jimmy. Enduring their teasing about Jane's phone call. Going for long runs in the morning. Going for long runs in the evening.

She even tries yoga – though only once, and that quickly comes to a stop when she pulls a muscle in her neck.

But every time she sees the small cut on her niece's cheekbone, the anger comes back fast, hot and strong, as if she only just heard what happened. And if she wants to keep _all_ the promises she made that day in Jimmy's car, she'll have to stop running and face the music – and not just _one day_ , either.

Soon.

Before she goes back to Sacramento.

So on the third evening she requests that Annie sleeps at Stan's house, and then spends the night praying, gathering strength and courage, calling on her memories of what used to work on her dad, and browsing the internet in search of additional tips. Sleep doesn't come easy, and after an early run the next morning, she takes a cab to Stan's house as the sun rises above the trees.

She's reaching for her phone when the door opens and her brother, one finger on his lips, ushers her in.

"Hey. Sorry I didn't call like I said I would," she whispers.

"It's fine, I saw your cab from the living room," Stan answers. "Come in. Can I make you something? Coffee and toasts perhaps?"

"Coffee would be great."

"Of course. Jimmy's at the old house?"

"Yeah, he should come over later. How's Annie?"

"Fine, I think. Still sleeping upstairs. She knows you're gonna see her dad today?"

"Yeah. She had to know, I may need to call on you guys later."

He smiles, but she can feel the nervousness seeping out of him – and to be honest, she isn't faring much better.

"Here," he says quietly, putting coffee and toasts on the table. "What are you planning to do about Tommy?"

She takes a bite first, giving her time to mull her answer over. The sweet and salty taste of sharp cheese and raspberry jam melts on her tongue.

"Talk to him, I guess. Try to make him realise what he's done," she says after a sip of coffee. "How did you get him to seek help last time?"

"I didn't. His ex threatened to take Annabeth away. They had a huge fight and she walked out on him anyway, but he checked himself into rehab and got clean after that. She was all too happy to give him custody of their daughter when he got out."

"Yeah. She never was the motherly type, huh?"

They eat in silence for a while.

"I didn't ask this before, but I need to know. Did Annie tell you what happened to cause, uh – "

She points to her cheekbone awkwardly. Stan puts his coffee down.

"Yeah, she did," he growls. "She was trying to save a family picture, but got there too late. Said a piece of glass bounced on the wall and cut her cheek, Tommy didn't realise she was hurt."

"Do you believe her?"

He shrugs, not meeting her eyes.

"She mostly said she didn't want her father to be in trouble."

"So she could have lied," she sighs. "Well, Tommy isn't dad. There's no reason to believe he did that on purpose, right?"

"He took a swing at me, T. Nearly broke my jaw."

"But you were both yelling at each other, weren't you? I'm not saying you asked for it, but – you always had a knack to get under each other's skin when you were teens. It doesn't mean he'd do the same to Annabeth."

"Maybe. But – "

He stops himself, looks away – tries to hide it, but she sees his fists clenching and unclenching on his thighs. Dread is making her queasy.

" _But?_ "

"You weren't around when he was drinking last time. He mostly destroyed things, never touched his daughter – but she was three back then, often asleep when he got into one of his fits. He broke my nose once, did I tell you that? Fought with his ex a couple times, physical fights, and that's not even coming close to what he did to Jimmy. So – yeah. _Yeah_ , if he was drunk, he could have done it on purpose. If Annie was trying to get him to stop, or annoyed him somehow, he could have forgotten who she was and – you know."

She bites her lip, flinching when the pain comes a lot faster than she expected.

"Alright, I'll go now," she says, getting up. "No point in waiting around – better to go there early, anyway. More chances to catch him sober."

"Want me to go with?"

"No. After last time? It would only make things worse."

"Yeah. Okay. Careful, huh? Stay clear of his fists."

"I know how to handle drunk people, Stan."

He nods, muttering something she doesn't quite catch but sounds a lot like swearing, and walks her to the door. She's just about to get out when they hear footsteps upstairs.

"Aunt Reese?"

Annie, all unkempt hair and bare feet, flings herself down the stairs – she barely has time to open her arms and catch her before she tumbles on the ground.

"Hey there," she says, smiling. "What are you doing up this early?"

"You're gonna see dad, right?" comes the muffled answer. "Can I come with you?"

"I think it's better you stay with your uncle for now, okay?"

The girl looks up.

"But you're not going to get him in trouble, right? I can go back later, when you're done talking?"

That small cut on her left cheekbone, two fingers below her eye, still hasn't completely healed in over three weeks. Her first instinct is to yell ' _Hell no! I'm not leaving you alone there until I make sure it's safe!_ ', but she recognises the stubborn expression on her face.

Saw it on her own, twenty years ago.

"We'll see," she answers instead. "First I need to talk to him. I'll see you later, okay?"

"Annabeth, why don't you come with me and eat something?" says Stan.

"It's _Annie!_ "

"Fine, _Annie_. You hungry? I'm gonna make pancakes."

She sends him a grateful glance, her arms still full of mildly distressed pre-teen. The girl hugs her one last time before taking a step back, lips pursed, and she's suddenly very grateful her niece is still too young to take dangerous initiatives on her own.

 _That won't last. She's talking back already._

"Come on, you can help me make the batter," says Stan, putting his arm around the girl's shoulders.

"Better make it myself, yours always tastes watery," she answers, letting herself be towed to the kitchen. "How do you even _do_ that?"

"Sheer talent! Think you can do better?"

"Uh, _yeah!_ Anybody could!"

" _Ha!_ You should have seen your aunt's when she was your age. Burned outside, raw inside, just like, uh, pretty much everything else she made. Taste was okay, but the _smell_ it left in the kitchen – "

She rolls her eyes, unable to help the smirk climbing up her face. As much as she wants to join them and add in the teasing – Annie's carefree laugh being such an addictive sound – she must leave _now_.

Before she loses the courage to confront her brother again.

Tommy's place isn't that far. Calling a taxi would be wasteful, and the weather is nice enough that she decides to walk. But her footsteps are heavy, and heavier still as she gets closer, slowly crushed by the weight of anger and guilt. And when she finally stands on his doorstep, she wonders if she'll even be able to get a word out before dissolving in either fit of rage for endangering his daughter, or tearful apologies for failing him.

Until she gets inside.

Until she walks over to the garden at the back, climbs up to the second floor, opens the unlocked door, and gazes upon the sea of discarded, empty bottles of beer _everywhere_.

On the floor and the kitchen table.

On the book shelves, the television stand.

Standing in line against the walls.

Everywhere.

She spends a whole minute rooted on the spot, overcome with dread, convinced she's going to find him dead from alcohol poisoning somewhere in the apartment. And when she finally gets in, sees him passed out on the couch just like their father years ago, fury burns through all the guilt and worry and sadness inside her so quickly she has to walk out, lest she kicks him off his couch and into the next galaxy.

Stan and Jimmy weren't lying. This has been going on for a while.

 _His soulmate isn't the only one who needs to turn his life around._

Hands clenched on the wrought iron railing outside, she closes her eyes, takes a few deep breaths. Pushed the wrath, the disappointment, the anguish aside – locks them down, because those emotions aren't constructive, aren't helpful. One day she'll have to let them out, but not now, not when her family needs her.

Not when _Tommy_ needs her.

Then she goes back in. Makes sure there isn't any alcohol left around her brother. Washes a glass, fills it with water, and looks around for the headache tablets she knows he must be keeping around. Finds them in the bathroom cabinet – there's only one left.

 _It'll have to do._

"Tommy. Get up," she says – teeth clenched, because the bulk of her anger may be locked down, but it doesn't mean it _disappeared_.

Her brother moans when she shakes him, but doesn't move.

"Come on. Get up!"

This time he blinks a few times and opens bleary eyes on her, hungover and in pain. She has to dive deep inside to find just a little sympathy.

"Hey Reese. Whadd'ya doin' here?" he mouths off around his furred tongue.

"Here, take this."

He obeys immediately, and she pulls a chair next to the couch as he drains the water with a grateful sigh.

"What time izzit?"

"Early."

"You're here to yell at me?" he says, once she's seated near him.

 _I'm here because you scared your eleven years old kid half to death._

"No. But you're drinking again, and we have to talk about that."

"Yeah, well – don't wanna talk about it, so you can go away now."

"Tommy."

"Leave me alone, Reese."

He curls up on the couch, closes his eyes. She sighs, and closes hers. When she looks at him again, he's peering up at her, his expression halfway between frustration and disbelief that she isn't gone yet – something that tugs deep, way past the anger, to the most primal part of her. And when she reaches out, takes his hand, something like shock washes over his face for a second.

"I can't leave you alone. You're too important to me."

But Tommy snorts, takes his hand back. Pushes himself in a sitting position, and glares.

"If I'm so important, you'd come here more often. Go away."

He squints against the light, and she clamps down on the urge to kill him right then and there. He's trying to provoke her, that much is obvious – and she's suddenly glad for the years of practice with Jane antagonising her whenever she gets too close to sensitive topics.

If she could do it with Stan and Jimmy three days ago, she can do it with Tommy now.

"You're right," she says. "I should have been there for you. We were always there for each other when we were kids, and I left. I abandoned you – I'm sorry. But I'm here now. I'm here to help."

"Yeah? Well you can't swoop in here and save the world this time, Reese! And I don't want – _or need_ – your help."

"You _do_ need help, Tommy. Maybe not mine. But you need professional help."

"I don't need help at all."

"Your daughter begs to differ!" she bites out before she can stop herself.

"Leave Annabeth out of this!"

"Do you even know where she is?"

"She's – she's with her mum," he says, but his eyes are suddenly filled with panic.

"You _know_ she isn't. Don't you remember what happened?"

A painful frown appears on his forehead.

"You called," he says after a few seconds. "Said something about – _him_. That was – I don't remember. Some time ago."

"Three weeks ago."

"Three _weeks?_ "

She nods.

"Okay, so – three weeks ago, you called. I got – angry. She was upstairs, I think?"

She nods again. Her brother rubs his forehead.

"Didn't think she heard – saw – no, _heard_ – anything."

"She was right in the middle of it. You threw glass on the wall. It bounced back on her."

"I'd never do that! I'd _never_ hurt her!"

"She has a cut, _right here_ ," she says, pointing at her cheekbone. "It's still healing. Stan said she had blood all over her face when she came to him that night. This is serious, Tommy. She could have lost an eye."

He looks sick suddenly.

"I – _no_ – what? Where is she now?" he asks, distressed, bouncing up to his feet.

She gets up quickly. No way is she letting him leave before they're done here.

"Hopefully back to bed."

"I need to see her. _Where is she?_ "

" _Sit down_. She's fine. I'll call her when we're done here."

"She's _my daughter_ , you can't stop me from seeing her!

"And what good is it gonna do, huh?" she growls, poking at his chest. "What do you think it's gonna do to her, seeing her father like that? Look at this place – look at _you!_ Damnit, Tommy. You're my little brother and I love you – but so help me God, _I can't watch you turn into Dad!_ "

He pales, loses his footing, falls back on the couch – and when he looks up at her, she's reminded of the kid of eleven, thirteen, fifteen he used to be. The kid who used to ask her for direction, even after he shot up six inches in a single summer. The kid who used to hold her hand in a terrified grip when their father ranted downstairs, late at night. The kid – _one of the kids_ – she used to protect at any cost, with no regard for her own personal safety, and whom she failed so many times already.

Against all reason and biology, against her own mind sometimes, _her_ kid.

"Damnit, Tommy," she repeats – voice rough, arms open. "Come here."

He leans his forehead against her stomach, arms lose around her hips, not quite hugging.

"I know I messed up," he says, his voice so muffled she can barely make out the words. "It's just – the guys kept inviting me for drinks, and then I lost my job, and – "

"You can't keep going on like that," she says, running her hand through his dark locks. "This time it ends up okay, but _you know_ there can never be a 'next time'."

"Yeah, I know."

"If you can't do it for yourself, do it for your daughter. She loves you, you know. And she needs you."

"I know."

"I love you too."

"Me too."

"And I wanna be there for you."

He doesn't answer, instead leans more heavily against her.

"What can I do? Help you clean the apartment? Pay for rehab?" she insists. "There can't be much left of your savings."

He shakes his head and gets up, releasing her – rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Have enough for another month. I can do this on my own – _have_ to. I'll talk to my sponsor, go to meetings again. Find a new job. Just – "

He swallows painfully.

" – don't give up on me?"

" _I won't_ ," she says. "I'd never give up on you, Tommy – you know that, right?"

He nods, but the corners of his mouth turn downward, and she knows he doesn't quite believe her. How much of it is due to despair, how much to her chronic avoidance of her brothers?

"Are you sure you don't want to go to rehab? It helped a lot last time."

"No, I – I want to try and do this myself. I think I can."

"What if you can't?"

"Then – then I'll go."

She bites her lip.

"I want to trust you, Tommy. I really do. But – "

"I _need_ to do this myself, Reese."

"I hear you. Let's make a deal, okay? I'll be back here for Thanksgiving. If by then you haven't managed to do it on your own, we'll get you into a program. Okay? And if you ever feel like you can't do it before Thanksgiving, you give me a call. Immediately."

He swallows, then nods – and it's not just deflection. It's not like the thousand promises her father made and never kept, she can see the difference. He's aware of the consequences of failure – and dreads them enough to act on it.

 _Dad never did._

Of course, she isn't naive either – she'll enlist Stan and Jimmy's help, check on him regularly, keep her niece safe until he gets back on his feet. Make sure nobody enables his drinking, either by allowing him to hide or with the wrong kind of help. But he did it once – and he _knows_.

He _knows_ what kind of consequences he'll be facing if he doesn't do everything he can to stop.

It gives her hope that things can – _will_ – get better down the line. For him, and everyone else. He needs to take the next step for that to happen, however. So she picks up the phone in her pocket, and puts it in his hands.

"Call your sponsor, please."

"What, _now?_ "

" _Yes_ , now – if you don't do it _now_ , you won't do it at all. Come on," she says.

As he takes the phone reluctantly and calls, she fights hard to keep the mirth off her face – he wouldn't understand why that conversation makes her laugh. But she takes note for herself, and vows to work on her own issues. Because they both have their own addiction, their own escape from reality.

And hers nearly destroyed her bonds with her family.

* * *

 **Next chapter should be out late June/early July.  
**

Real interventions staged for an addict should, of course, never be attempted alone. Lisbon doesn't handle this one particularly well either. Please don't use this story as an example of how it should be done.

This chapter was very much one half of a whole, and I'm sorry about that – last one taught me long is good but _too_ long isn't, and this was definitely getting too long. Would you believe me if I said originally there was only supposed to be one chapter between the "Red John's Footsteps" and "Red Badge" Interludes?

Anyway. See you on the next one. =)


	9. Part 7

_**Disclaimer:**_ _ **As you probably guessed by now, this show and its characters aren't mine.**_

 **A/N:** This chapter accidentally turned into a bit of a feminist manifesto. I'm not really sorry about it because those points needed to be addressed, but hopefully it doesn't come off too heavy handed.  
I _am_ sorry about the mammoth length, though – had promised myself never to go over 13k again, and the next thing you know...

 **Warnings:** Unsafe driving (and near car crash), Lorazepam/Ativan over-sedation, mental confusion, unhealthy feeding habits, and fear for one's health. If this triggers you, please stay safe.

 **Spoilers:** Some dialogues are taken directly from 2.02 "The Scarlet Letter". Cameo from two men on Jane's list of seven Red John suspects – first one is obvious, can you guess the second one?

* * *

 **Kindred**  
 **Part 7**

He waits until the Fourth to sneak out of town. Sacramento to Yountville isn't _that much_ of a ride, even with the expected holiday traffic – and once he's there, finding the right address is a matter of flashing his ID to a bunch of teenagers lolling around in the streets. News travels fast in quiet places – even without being acquainted with the victim, everybody knows where the murder occurred.

Unsurprisingly, the small inn where it happened is cordoned off in yellow tape. He didn't expect otherwise, counted on it actually – an average Red John crime scene usually takes five days to process. Taping the whole place up instead of the one room is perhaps _a little_ overkill, but then again, something inside may warrant it. He won't know until he gets access.

The man stationed at the door was expected also – one guard at all times is standard procedure to prevent invasion and contamination of the crime scene. Sometimes they just seal the door and leave it at that, but this is a murder, this is Red John. They _have_ to take all possible precautions.

Less expected are the four men – _four!_ – patrolling around the inn.

He parks on the other side of the street, pushing down on the bubble of desperate laughter threatening to escape. This is ridiculous. Five officers to guard a crime scene in a remote area, on a national holiday no less? What a waste of manpower – and taxpayer's money! Who came up with that?

Minelli?

Cho?

Bosco, all on his own?

 _Should have waited until_ after _the first murder to start messing with his pass codes._

"Hey," says one of the patrol men, knocking on the window. "You can't park there, buddy. Move on, now."

He opens the door, gets out. A cursory glance reveals youth, arrogance and a tan uniform.

"Oh, it's okay. I'm a consultant for the Red John murder."

"A consultant, what for?"

"Eeeh – blood spatters, never mind that. Didn't they tell you I was coming?"

"Nobody's scheduled to come back until tomorrow morning."

"Ah yeah, last-minute plans, they were supposed to call. And, uh – put me on a – list? A list of pre-authorised people. Yes?" he asks, reading him as he speaks.

"Wouldn't know. If you're on the list, you'll have to take it up with _those_ guys up there."

He frowns. The man standing guard at the door wears blue.

"Aren't you with the sheriff's offices?"

"Yeah yeah, I am. What of it?"

"That one over there?"

" _On loan_ from Napa city."

He quickly hides a grin as he catches the young deputy's hostility and distaste for his law enforcement colleagues.

 _I can use that._

"From _Napa?_ " he says, tone filled with disbelief. "Isn't that completely out of their jurisdiction?"

"Yeah, totally. This one should be ours."

"What are they even doing here?"

"I dunno, man. Bad enough that those guys from Sacramento took over, one of them wanted to make sure there would be at least six guards at all time. That's more men than we could spare, so they have us to patrol the grounds, and _them_ to guard the doors."

"Six men? Wait – _six?_ "

"Yeah. There's one more inside."

" _Wow_. Sorry, pal."

"What for? Job's boring, but the pay's good."

"Ah, well – sounds to me like they're, you know. Trying to keep _you_ guys away from the crime scene."

The young man flushes crimson, sinews bulging on each side of his neck.

"Why would they do that?" he adds. "I'm sure you do your job well enough."

"We do a _great_ job!"

"See? They have no reason not to trust you. Just because they say 'small towns, small crimes', doesn't mean you don't have enough experience to work a murder."

" _Yeah!_ We have the same training, do the same work, _and_ cover more territory!"

" _Exactly!_ No reason to be stuck on patrol duty while they have the big responsibilities."

"Well – I don't know that guard duty is so much of a big responsibility."

"But _they're_ the ones I have to talk to, right? The ones with the list?"

The deputy clenches his fists. He hides his smiles.

"You know what, you're right. I see it now. We should at least know the names! You said you needed to get in? I'm gonna check that list for you."

"That's the spirit."

"Follow me."

"Right behind you."

 _One down, two to go._

"Hey! Gimmy the list, need to check out this guy's authorisation. Dude – what did you say your name was again?"

A quick check of his Memory Palace brings up Bosco's least conspicuous man.

"Uh, Mark Dyson."

"ID please," says the police officer at the door.

This one is older, looking bored and irritated. The ring on his finger, slightly pudgy appearance and cheap shoes point to a family man working hard to provide for his wife and kids. This gig must be a boon for his bank account, but takes him away from his family on a holiday – which would easily explain his frustration.

 _Probably got chewed about it at home, too._

He almost feels sorry for him.

"Just show me the list, man. I'll check it myself," says the increasingly annoyed deputy.

"No. That's my job. _You're_ supposed to be patrolling the area."

" _Oh yeah?_ Trying to keep the important work to yourself, huh? You cops from the big city, always the same, looking down on us! Think we deputies can't handle the stress, do you?"

"What are you even on about? _Hey! Give that back!_ "

Neither of them are paying him attention anymore, and he's just about to slip inside when a third voice booms from behind, making them all jump.

"What's going on here?"

 _Oh, come on!_

The man coming their way is older – silent walk, lean physique, unremarkable aura. Sheriff uniform and a cowboy hat. He frowns.

 _I know that man. Case from last year. What's his name again? Mac_ _– something. McCallum? No – McAllister. That's it._

"Powell, why aren't you patrolling the grounds like you're supposed to?"

"This guy's a consultant, needs to get in. I was just checking the list to – "

"That's not your job, and _as you were told_ , nobody is scheduled to come here today. Did you even ask for his ID?"

"Well – uh – "

"If you had, you would know this is Patrick Jane, _the very man_ you were warned not to let anywhere close to the crime scene."

"He said his name was Dyson!"

"And _that_ is why you have to ask for an ID. Now _go_."

The young deputy glares at him but leaves, duly chastised. The police officer rolls his eyes, folds his list and puts it back in his chest pocket, stepping back in front of the entrance. McAllister, his expression halfway between annoyance and amusement, herds him away from the door with shooing hand motions.

"Jane. Was starting to hope you'd be smart enough not to show up."

The sparkle of laughter in his eyes belies his words. There's little doubt his coming around at that exact moment wasn't a coincidence either – that man enjoys lording his power and height just a little too much. Where was he watching from?

"Sheriff McAllister, right?" he says, grinning – turning on the full charm offensive. "Didn't expect anyone to recognise me on sight in Yountville."

"Ah, you left _quite_ the impression last time we met."

 _Personal slight. What did I do to him again? Oh, he's the rock-paper-scissors guy. Right. Oops.  
_

"Didn't think you'd remember _me_ though," continues the man, flash of satisfaction passing over his features.

 _Competitive and likes the attention. Used to be overlooked? Appeal to his vanity, probably the only approach that'll work on a man like him._

" _Of course_ I do. This is like a – a reunion between old friends, isn't it?"

The man blinks.

"I guess it is."

"And perhaps we could, uh, have a little understanding here. On account of being friends."

He makes sure to use expansive hand gestures and open body language, an invitation to trust. McAllister chuckles.

"Oh yeah? And what kind of 'understanding' did you have in mind?"

 _Secure in his power, knows he has the upper hand here. No sign of being insulted by my proposition – seems genuinely curious to know. Possibly corrupt?_

He grins.

 _Definitely corruptible._

"Listen, I _really_ need to get inside – get a look of the crime scene, get a feel for things."

"Mm-hm."

"Now, I'm aware there's red tape all over this – I used to work this case, then it got transferred to someone else who's a little too eager to establish his boundaries, pissing contest and all that. Know what I mean?"

"Of course."

"So there's no _true_ reason to keep me away, and I'd be _really_ grateful if we could move past that."

"Mm-hm. And why aren't you on the case anymore, exactly?" asks McAllister, frowning. "Not incompetence, I gather?"

"Of _course_ not."

"Then what?"

"Meh," he says, with a vague hand gesture. "You know how I work, right? Walk on people's feet, throw a little insults here and there, use tricks. All in the pursuit of smoking out culprits, you understand."

"Yes, I remember your M.O."

"People don't like that much for some reason," he grins. "So I get a lot of complaints."

"Can't imagine why," smirks the Sheriff, crossing his arms on his chest.

"Right? So this is an attempt to, uh – keep me in line or something. Just a big misunderstanding, really. I'll get the case back eventually, but in the meantime if I can't have direct access to the crime scene – "

"You could be losing evidence you can't get from a picture."

" _Exactly!_ So what d'you say to a little inter-agency cooperation, huh? With my skills set and position at the CBI, I could be a valuable asset to you."

"A friend in high place."

"Oh yeah, and so much more."

He can see temptation written plainly all over the man's face, shining bright in his eyes – then a black car drives by, parks twenty feet from his Citroen, and the moment is lost.

"Shame, but rules are rules. I'll have to decline – you and I would both get into a lot of trouble if I took you up on that offer. Move along, now."

The car's driver stays behind his wheel. Frustration rises again, along with desperation.

"Oh, _come on_. You saw how easy for me it was to manipulate those guys – what's stopping me from doing it again, huh? Wouldn't it be much easier and lucrative for you to just accept my proposition?"

Something flashes dark and dangerous on the Sheriff's features before the neutral expression slips back in place – so quickly he doesn't quite grasp it.

"Do you think me some kind of idiot? My deputies will detain anyone who tries to sneak in – if I see you around here again, you'll be arrested. You have five minutes 'til I pull out the cuffs. _Shoo_."

Scowling has no effect. McAllister matches him glare for glare, and for now he's forced to retreat – the man has him beaten. Teeth clenching, he sends a dirty look to the driver of the black car as he walks by – blue-tinted windows prevent him from seeing much of him outside of brushed back dark hair, pouting lips and a suit. The stranger stays unmoving as he gets back into his car, slamming the door behind him.

Waiting until McAllister strolls down his way, dangling handcuffs on one finger – _just to spite the man_ – achieves the opposite effect, angering him instead.

He drives two blocks away, then stops again, knuckles strained white on the wheel. The sun is quickly setting further West, but he's so angry he barely notices it – damn that stupid car making noise at the wrong moment! Damn that small town Sheriff! Damn Bosco and Minelli, too! How _dare_ they try and get between him and his revenge!

 _Red John is mine!_

For a moment, temptation burns hot and bright inside him – it would be so easy to just wait until nightfall then sneak in through a window, or dye his hair and impersonate a police officer, or anything else really, as long as he _just gets inside_.

But the consequences of being caught wouldn't be worth it. Not for a half-processed crime scene. And without Lisbon around to bat in his corner, Bosco would have free reign to use this and convince Minelli to add even more security measures around the Red John case. No doubt he'd probably use it to try and get him fired, too – he was obvious enough in his desire to see him leave, two weeks ago.

 _Would Minelli go for it?_

Probably not. But can he take the risk?

 _Not as long as Lisbon isn't officially back in charge of the case._

If Lisbon had the case, even if he was forbidden to set foot in the CBI headquarters, he could manage. Convince her to give him the information he need, and even share his own to an extent, just enough to assure further cooperation. They could come to an understanding – or in the worst case, he could just read everything off her.

 _Bosco, on the other hand_ –

His fist hits the dashboard.

There's no reason to stay in Yountville anymore – or anywhere else in Napa County, for that matter. And the dark sky is already lighting up with fireworks, sparks irritating his eyes, noise grating on his nerves – so he takes the road, escapes for a while in the adrenaline spike coming from speeding on the highway.

He's getting close to Sacramento, two near accidents later, when his phone rings.

"Yes," he answers curtly, barely slowing down.

"Jane?"

"Oh hi, Lisbon."

"You, uh – you didn't call at the usual time, I was getting worried. Is everything okay?"

He frowns. It's barely ten past nine – ten past eleven in Chicago.

"Everything is fine," he says. "What about you? Aren't you supposed to be with your family?"

"I've been with them all day."

"Time for a break, huh?"

She chuckles. There's still an undercurrent of anxiety in her voice.

"So uh, tough case? Hard at work?" she asks.

"Not at all. Day off. Why do you ask?"

A motorcycle cuts him off abruptly – he curses and slams the brakes, tires screeching against the pavement. The car spins twice on itself, nearly crashes in the concrete fence before he manages to steer it away from the edge. He comes to a stop on the nearest shoulder, ignoring the honks and wails of angry drivers around him.

" _Jane!_ " screams Lisbon in his ear.

"It's okay," he says, heart in his throat. "I'm okay. Give me a second, I'll pull off the highway."

She stays silent, but he can hear her relieved gasps even over his own harsh breathing. With a deep breath he turns the contact again, glad to see it respond – a stall at this point would be a nightmare to sort out. He pulls over at the nearest exit, parks in the first street and gets out, walking a few steps to a nearby bus stop. The lights flicker as he lets himself fall on the bench – his legs are still shaking.

"Okay," he says, then swallows. "I'm good. You can yell now."

" _What the hell_ possessed you to drive out of town on the Fourth, damnit?"

He chuckles, a little breathless – and she joins him soon after, every bone and muscle in his body coming lose as together they laugh the fear, fury and desperation away.

 _One phone call._

All it takes is one phone call at the right moment – perhaps a near-death experience, too – and suddenly things don't look so bad anymore.

"Worrying about you is _not_ what I expected from my vacations," she continues, still laughing – a freeing sound full of relief.

"You always worry anyway, Lisbon."

" _No kidding!_ How could I not? When I see what you get up to behind my back!"

"Speaking of which – "

"Oh _no_. Okay, let's hear it."

He grins.

"How far is this clause of honesty supposed to go, by the way?"

"What do you mean?"

He can _perfectly_ picture the cautious expression on her face.

"I mean – if I got up to something, planned it very hard, and failed to execute it, do I need to tell you what the plan entailed?"

She sighs, a tiny discontent noise trickling down his back, and he bites on the inside of his cheek to avoid chuckling again.

Interesting how often that happens around her.

"Did you mess with Bosco or his team again?"

"Eh, not really – I mean, not this time."

"Is this something Minelli will hear about?"

"I doubt that very much."

"Did you step on important people's toes again? Anger anyone with a long reach?"

"Uh, no."

"You don't seem sure."

"Well, it depends on your definition of 'important', but my answer would be no."

 _'Sheriff of Napa County' doesn't have that much political clout, right?_

"Did you steal, lose or damage someone else's property?"

"No," he chuckles.

"Is this something that will make me angry?"

"If I tell you – maybe."

"Is it going to come back and bite you – _or me!_ – at some point in the future?"

"I don't think so."

"But you aren't sure?"

"Nobody can ever be sure of anything, Lisbon – absolute certainty doesn't exist. But I don't think it will."

She sighs again.

"Okay. Then – keep your schemes to yourself, don't want to hear about them. Not tonight."

His eyebrows shoot up his forehead, and his grins widens.

"How very trustful of you."

"Don't make me regret this."

"No, no – I'm impressed. Flattered, even."

"Jane."

"First proof of trust by Teresa Lisbon – and relinquish of control, too! That's something to celebrate, right?"

" _Did you want a_ plaque?"

"Oh no, no need – wouldn't have any walls to hang it on. But I _would_ enjoy that superhero costume you promised me a few months ago."

The laugh in his ears is surprised and delighted and very much _not_ 'Agent Lisbon'.

He likes it.

"You sound better," he smiles. "Do you feel better?"

"Much," she answers honestly. "It's good to see my brothers again. And I, uh – I wasn't planning on saying this, but – you know."

He grins again. Waits – because he's not going to make it _easy_ for her. And she's probably getting the urge to roll her eyes right now, so providing her with a reason to do so is only common courtesy.

"Thank you," she says in a rush.

"What for?"

"Oh come on, Jane. Really?"

"I'm listening," he sing-songs.

" _Thank you for tricking me into taking a vacation_. There. Happy?"

"No! 'Tricking you' – I resent that! No one _tricked you_. We made a deal."

She chuckles.

"You think I don't see what you did there? That deal doesn't benefit you in any way!"

"Of course it does. You still owe me twenty-four hours of honesty. I'll call you out on that one day, you'll see."

"As if you needed it!"

"One day I'm sure I will. And you still went on with it, didn't you?"

"Of course I did. You promised me a full week of good behaviour when I come back."

Her tone is playful, and his grin widens further.

"Thank you, Jane," she repeats, more quietly this time – heartfelt.

"You're welcome."

A fly sizzles against the light – and he shivers, gets back to his car. The door slamming rouses Lisbon's attention.

"You're getting into that death trap again?"

"Well, I'm not gonna sleep in the streets."

" _Where_ are you gonna sleep?"

He pauses. Frowns. Turns the contact.

"That's a good question. One I shall think on as I drive back to the city."

"You should go back to your hotel room. Sleep in a real bed for a change."

"My couch is more comfortable."

"But colder."

"Which would be enjoyable in this heat."

"What if you get too cold?"

"Then I have a throw."

"That old thing over the back of your couch? It _smells_."

He pauses again.

"Really?"

"I don't know what you _do_ with it, but – _yeah_. Like – _dirt_ , and – I don't know. Where did you find it anyway?"

"Uh, I dunno – I think it came with the couch. But I washed it barely a week before you left, are you sure – ?"

"Must be embedded in the fabric."

"Ah, well – there's a blanket in your cupboards. That one smells good, right? I can use that one until I get a new throw."

Ah, there it is – the slightly groaning sigh going with the classic Lisbon eye roll. Just what he was waiting for.

" _However_ ," he smiles. "I need a change of clothes, so for tonight you win – hotel room it is."

"Now you're just being contrary!"

Voices in the background echo impatient and demanding – she covers the receiver with her hand and gives an answer he can't make out before coming back.

"Gotta go, the fireworks are over. Promise me you'll be careful on the road?"

"It'll be fine," he chuckles.

"You nearly died minutes ago!"

"Not by _my_ fault!"

" _Be careful_ , Jane. That's all I ask. Lot of idiots on the roads tonight. Don't be one of them."

"Happy Fourth, Lisbon."

She sighs.

"Happy Fourth. I'll be back soon. Stay alive until then, will you?"

He makes sure to be careful as he drives back to his hotel room, still speeding but paying more attention to the road than he ever did since Pete's first lessons as a teenager. Not that he has any plans to admit it out loud, but that last miss on the highway shook him. To an extent, at least – enough for him to realise becoming roadkill isn't a desirable outcome.

Dying before he gets to Red John isn't an option.

And there's a niggling thought there, a persistent little annoyance at the back of his mind – something to do with Lisbon, and the reason she called. Something he doesn't allow to reach his conscious thoughts while he's on the road, because that would be liable to cause an accident – a real, fatal one this time. Something he refuses to ponder on until he's safe in bed, laptop on his knees and cup of tea near his elbow.

She said she was calling because he was late, but –

 _I was speeding on the road._

– it was barely ten minutes past nine, and he usually calls her any time between nine and ten.

She asked if he was working, but –

 _I was careless.  
_

– it's the Fourth, she must have known he would stay away from the office today, like he always does.

She thanked him for pushing her to go and see her family, but –

 _I nearly got killed three times driving back from Yountville tonight – that last one was just the worst._

– she missed parts of the fireworks, a very family-centred tradition, to spend time on the phone with him.

She could have waited until after it was over. She could have waited until he remembered to call.

She didn't.

Why?

She was worried.

 _Why?_

He swallows painfully. The answer is staring him in the face, so plainly obvious no amount of denial can help him bury the knowledge again.

 _She called because her hand was burning._

* * *

Vowing to work on her issues only stands until she gets back home and has to face Dr. Carmen again.

It's irrational – every time she walks down the employee support services hallway, she comes with good intentions. Every time, she tells herself she'll open up, talk about real issues instead of skipping over and around her troubles. And every time, she clams up and find herself unable to utter a word, to both hers and – though he makes a show of being patient – her therapist's frustration.

The man _irks_ her.

She takes to drinking as much coffee as she can – _her own liquid courage_ – before, after, and _while_ in his office. To no avail – every single time, she gets out of there confused and annoyed with herself, drained, with the start of a headache that usually lasts all day.

"Twenty minutes late today," he says when she pushes the door open.

"I know, I'm sorry. We caught a case."

"Last week it was ten. I hope you're not planning to turn this into a habit."

She gives him a quick perfunctory smile, and takes her place on the couch. He follows slowly, taking his time, and for a second – not for the first time – she gets a faint feeling of _wrongness_. She isn't quite sure what triggers the uneasiness. Perhaps the way he dresses, Argyle vests and smart trousers, everything chosen in a calculated effort to appear non-threatening. Perhaps the way he smiles at her, as if too benevolent to be honest. Then he gives her a cup of coffee and a napkin, sits on his chair, arms joined over his stomach – all poised and attentive – and she shakes herself, takes a sip.

The overwhelming bitterness of the brew lingers on her tongue.

 _I spend too much time with Jane – makes me wary of everyone._

"So. Tell me how was your week."

She scowls, takes another sip.

"My week was fine. We closed two cases, caught three more. That brings our current total to four open cases, which is enough to keep everyone busy."

"That's not what I was asking."

" _What_ were you asking?"

Dr. Carmen rubs his chin, scowling lightly.

"Alright – let's try a new approach. How is it, working with Jane everyday?"

The question comes out of the blues and immediately makes her feel defensive.

"Why do you ask?"

"He saved your life. How did that change your relationship?"

Flashes of that night pass before her eyes – Jane's agony as he realises Red John escaped yet again, Jane's hands caked in blood, slowly revealing her name as she wipes it away, Jane's frantic heartbeat and pained breathing under her ear as he cradles her to his chest.

"It didn't," she answers, draining her cup. "Are we done yet?"

"We still have fifteen minutes left," answers the man after a quick look at the clock. "What about the rumours then? Do they bother you?"

"What rumours?"

She gets up, intent on getting herself more coffee – a dizzy spell makes her immediately sit back down, nauseous, and for a brief moment she entertains the idea of aiming any sickness coming up at Dr. Carmen's colourful Argyle vest.

 _Would serve him right. God I wish Father Di Buono was still in town._

"The rumours about you and Jane."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

She gets up again, slowly this time. When she comes back to the couch with a fresh cup of coffee, Dr. Carmen's scowl has hints of annoyance and puzzlement.

"You truly don't know about the rumours saying you're involved?"

She rolls her eyes.

"Doctor, I'm a woman holding a job in a male-dominated workplace. I've been team leader for over five years, and I'm not even 40. My unit currently holds a 100% closed case rate – we've been at the top of Minelli's 'Best Unit' billboard _every single month_ since Jane joined us. And in the few months before that? We were _always_ in the top five."

Deep breath, and a gulp of coffee to keep her anger in check. Pain is pounding at her temples.

"So yeah, _of course_ there's gonna be name-calling and kitchen gossip about us, and _of course_ some people will try to bring my people's work down to the simple explanation of me sleeping with my consultant. Or my boss. Or the members of my team – all of them at the same time."

The psychiatrist watches her contemplatively as she drains her cup again.

"You want to know what I think of the rumours? _Please_. I do my job – that's what I'm here for. I don't listen to them, and _I don't care_. Jane and I aren't involved, and anyone who thinks otherwise is either blind or delusional."

"Blind or delusional," repeats Dr. Carmen. "Strong words."

" _Accurate_ words."

" _Strong_ words, and a strong opinion. This is very good – must be the most I've heard from you since we started those sessions."

"So, are you going to sign off on me now? 'Cause I have work to do, and I'm losing my time here."

The man sighs and shakes his head. There's a headache trying to claw its way out of her skull by way of her eyes.

"We've done a lot of progress just now, but it's not enough. Come back next week, we'll talk more about this."

 _As if!_

She'd punch his _stupid_ face if she could get away with it.

Instead she storms off, tired and nauseous and _annoyed_ – annoyed with her therapist for his relentless questions and refusal to leave her alone, annoyed with the prejudiced, jealous colleagues spreading harmful words about her and her team, and most of all annoyed with herself for that outburst.

 _Is that why won't he sign off on me?_

Until she decides she doesn't care.

Dr. Carmen can read what he wants in her words – every single one of them was true. No second layer or hidden meaning, at all.

And her anger is completely justified.

She comes back to the bullpen like a hurricane, scaring Rigsby into dropping his pen. The clatter makes her grit her teeth – pain is still pulsing steadily behind her eyes, and though she walks quickly she's starting to feels sluggish, as if threading through mud instead of air.

"Where are the others?" she asks.

"Cho and Van Pelt aren't back from interviewing the widow yet. Jane is – oh. I thought he was on his couch?"

 _Huh? Crap. Is he still on good behaviour today or did it end yesterday? Can't remember. Jane, damnit. Where are you?_

"I'll find him," she yawns. "Just – continue what you were doing, and tell me when Cho and Van Pelt come back."

"Sure Boss. Uhm – "

"Yes?"

"Are you alright?"

Rigsby's warm eyes are filled with concern – an expression she often sees on his face, but never directed at her.

She must truly look terrible.

"I'm fine," she answers, trying to shake the cobwebs from her mind. "Just a little tired. I'll get myself some coffee."

 _How many cups did I have this morning? Can't remember._

Perhaps a nap would be a better idea – it'll soon be lunchtime, and the mere idea of food is making her sick anyway. Sleeping half an hour would probably help. With a little luck, the headache will die before it completely devours her brain.

But first, to find Jane.

Whipping out her phone, she selects his number in her contact book. Then frowns – something is ringing inside her office, and it doesn't sound like her desk phone at all.

Jane answers just as she pushes the door open.

"Hello Lisbon," he grins from her couch.

She rolls her eyes and closes her phone.

"What are you doing there?"

"Taking a nap."

"What about your own couch in the bullpen?"

"Meh. Too much light. You weren't here, so I figured why waste those perfectly good blinds?"

She can't stop a small grunt from escaping her throat.

 _There goes my quietness._

"You look awful," says Jane, sitting up.

"Gee, thanks a lot."

"No, I mean – really. You look like you're coming down with something. Are you feeling well?"

"I'm _fine_. Leave me alone, will you? I don't need you to hover."

Shadows of a struggle pass over his face, but caught between tiredness, pain, and nausea, she wouldn't even know how to _start_ understanding what's on his mind. The only thing she wants right now is headache medicine, and to sleep at least half an hour.

 _Perhaps a whole hour._

Frowning, Jane gets up, walks to her and puts his hand on her forehead without so much of a warning. And she opens her mouth to protest, even raises her arms to push him away – because the closeness they enjoyed on the phone for two weeks was so much easier when she didn't see him everyday, when she had time to forget about all the infuriating aspects of him. But his hand is cool and comforting against her pulsing forehead, and she finds herself swaying lightly into it, eyes closed and teeth clenched, trying to fend off the pain.

"Did you take something for that headache?" he asks.

"Was about to. You were on my couch."

"You should go home. Want me to tell Minelli you're not feeling well?"

She laughs, then hisses. Then laughs again, and takes a step back.

"I'm a little old to have my 'dad' call the 'principal' when I come down with a cold."

His smile is small and pained, and a confused thought about _fatherhood_ and _Jane_ and _not speaking of it around him_ passes through the fog in her mind – but he nods, keeps himself at arms length, and she loses her grasp on the notion before it can fully settle in her consciousness.

"I'll be fine, Jane. Just – leave me be for now, will you? I'll see you after lunch."

"You're taking a nap?"

"Uh, maybe."

"Let's get you settled, then."

He crosses the distance between then again, puts an arm around her waist and guides her to the couch before she has time to protest, then places two pills and a bottle of water in her hands. Where did he get those? His arm is still around her, and dancing lights are swimming before her eyes now. When she swallows the medicine, the gulp of water worsens her nausea.

 _Great._

"Get off me," she mutters.

She pushes him away – or at least tries to, until another dizzy spell makes her lose her footing and she ends up gripping his lapels to steady herself. He chuckles, helps her find the couch and steps back. As she lets herself fall on the cushions, the most teeth-chattering, nerve-grating metallic screech assaults her ears. She moans in agony. Quickly he's back by her side.

"Sorry, couldn't avoid it. Here."

He drapes something soft around her shoulders – the blanket, she realises. The blanket she keeps in the cupboard. That's where the metallic sound came from. From him opening the cupboard.

 _Did he pick the lock again?_

"I'll leave you to it, huh?" he says, walking to the door.

"Jane," she calls after his retreating form.

"Yes?"

"My phone."

"What?"

"Give back my phone."

"Your phone?"

"The one you stole just now. Give it back. Need to set an alarm."

His sigh echoes in the room, splitting her brain in half.

"You need to sleep it off," he says.

"Not your call."

"Well _yes_ , it is a little. I'm still supposed to be on my best behaviour, remember? So I need you to be receptive to my plan, which you won't be if you're all – grumpy and headache-y."

" _Do_ you have a plan?"

"Well – no. Not yet. But I'm working on it."

"Stop playing games. Just. Give it back."

He doesn't move.

"Don't make me get up," she growls, eyes closed.

"And you call _me_ a terrible patient," he chuckles, finally putting the device in her hand.

"You're not my doctor," she mumbles, squinting painfully as she pushes a few buttons, setting it to ring in an hour.

"Good thing, too. I'd send you right back home."

She leaves the phone under the cushion, near her ear.

"Sleep well, Lisbon," he says, before closing the door behind him.

She closes her eyes.

Slips in oblivion.

Sleeps right through her alarm, and only wakes up five hours later, disoriented – mind still foggy, stomach still upset, and now mouth dry and fuzzy too.

 _Crap. What the hell is happening to me?_

There's a bottle of water on the top of her filing cabinet, and she reaches for it like a drowning woman would reach for air – the first gulp helps settle her stomach, thank God, and washes away the fuzz on her tongue.

It nearly feels like a hangover, she thinks distractedly, rubbing at her dry eyes. Is there such a thing as a caffeine hangover?

A tiny moan escapes her parched lips. _Coffee_. Coffee would be _so good_ right now.

But there's something she has to do first – something she should have done weeks ago.

She picks up her phone from under the cushion, scrolls through her contact list until she finds the right one – then she waits, brows furrowed and mouth askance, until someone answers.

"Hi," she says after the receptionist's greeting. "I'd like to make an appointment with Dr. Compton, please."

* * *

They wait in the dark, silent and unmoving, biding their time until the suspect arrives. He knows to be quiet, of course, but this is taking _so much time_ , and he finds himself unusually jittery, as if he was about to walk on stage. That the part he's nervous about has nothing to do with their current situation, and rather everything with the bug in his pocket – the one he plans on carefully planting in Bosco's office tomorrow morning – is, of course, irrelevant.

"This is nerve-wracking," he whispers, making her jump.

"This is a stake-out," she answers wryly. "There's nothing nerves-wracking about it."

" _Excuse_ me. This is a _con_. The level of sophistication is light-years away from a mere _stake-out_."

"We're lying in wait until a suspect shows up. How is that not a stake-out?"

"There's a crucial difference – when you're running a con, you know the suspect _will_ show up," he grins.

There's not enough light to see her eye roll, but he can imagine the reluctant smile she sports right now.

She looks better.

Better than she has in weeks, actually. Certainly better than ten days ago, when she crashed in her office. Almost as good as when she came back from Chicago, with a glowing smile and light tan, guilt and stress-free – or as much as possible for Lisbon, anyway.

And it's a good thing, for several reasons but mostly – selfishly, he'll admit to that – because it's _getting in the way_. The hours he spends worrying about her is time he cannot afford to lose, not anymore. Not _now_ , not if he manages to bug Bosco's office, not if he needs to spend the next few weeks splitting his attention between listening on them and solving cases.

His priorities are still the same – if she keeps getting sick, one of them will have to give.

And while the logical part of him is adamant about _what_ will give, _what_ his choice will be – because Red John is _his his his_ – sometimes a skittish, fleeting memory crosses his mind. Memory of how she called him at night on a national holiday, full of worry and anxiousness _and hands burning and_ –

And hopefully it won't come to that.

A metallic clank echoes further down the hallway, interrupting his thoughts. He waits near the light switch and watches their suspect push his cleaning cart unsuspecting, get inside Lisbon's office, and pick up the sheet of paper he left in her desk.

"Ah-ha?" the man frowns, and that's his cue.

Everything goes according to plan – at first. Lisbon holds her gun steady while they expose him, and their fixer already looks a little pale and upset. No doubt they'll break him in very little time, and when they do he'll blab all about Senator Batson, or Walter Crew, or both. And when he does –

 _Case closed. Finally._

– when he does, he'll be free to work on his own plans – the _important_ ones.

"I got no idea what you're talking about here," says the man with a pronounced Italian accent, sheepish smile on his face, after trying to get them to call his 'supervisor' – probably an accomplice.

"We're talking about accessory to murder, conspiracy, obstruction," answers Lisbon, deadly serious and annoyed. " _Who hired you?_ "

He watches the back and forth with enjoyment, confident and satisfied.

" _Murder?_ Oh, I – I don't feel too good. Can I sit – can I – "

"Oh, take a seat," he says, rolling his eyes.

He pushes the chair his way, and the man sways as he mutters thankful words, braces himself on the backrest.

" _Jane!_ " yells Lisbon, and suddenly there's something sharp at his throat and harsh breathing in his ear.

"Alright," says the fixer. "No no no," he adds, eyeing her gun. " _Calm_."

A small part of his brain notices the accent is gone – the larger part of him is distracted by Lisbon's expression full of agony, and how the fingers of her left hand are _twitching_.

Fear hits him like a freight train, and he stops moving.

"Are you calm?"

"Sure," he answers, swallowing with difficulty.

"Alright. Now I want you to lift your gun out with two fingers and slide it across the floor," the man says very slowly.

Lisbon's eyes hold his own for a second, features rearranging themselves into a picture of quietness and composure, and _where did she learn to do that?_

"It's gonna be okay, Jane," she whispers as she pulls the gun slowly out of its holster. "He won't kill you."

" _You don't know that!_ "

"Yes. I do. It's gonna be okay."

"The gun, on the floor _now!_ " growls the voice in his ear.

She drops it just as the man pokes his throat harder. He hisses.

She hisses too, left hand clenching on itself.

The man chuckles.

"Oh, _I see_. Soulmates, huh? Get your cuffs."

"This isn't gonna work, you know," says Lisbon.

"Do it _now_ , or I cut his throat!"

She obeys slowly, dangling the handcuffs in the air, still holding his gaze. And he reads quiet confidence in her eyes, her face, even her body language – he just isn't sure he can _believe_.

"The door – hook yourself up."

She does.

"Toss the keys."

She does.

She's still looking right at him, unblinking – and his mind latches on the sight of her, tries to steal her composure for himself, until the fixer pulls him back sharply and his knees buckle under the strain.

"Now, you and I are gonna walk out of here," he says in his ear, and it takes a few seconds for his brain to process the man is talking to _him_.

"Uh – sure. Just a little stroll," he says, trying to appear calmer than he really feels.

When he's pulled toward the door and he loses eye contact with Lisbon, fear rises up again. His breathing is laboured – _painful_ – caught between the sharp scissor blades on his jugular and stress tightening the muscles of his chest. Then a noise outside the bullpen stops them all in their tracks – and for a few seconds they stay unmoving, rooted to the spot as all three of them try to figure out where the clicks and clacks and bangs come from.

Ally?

Enemy?

Time starts again when a flashlight hovers on the wall, and the fixer pushes him toward Lisbon before running away.

"Find out where he goes," says Lisbon.

 _What?_

"Oh – no, I think – "

"Go, now! _Go!_ "

 _Is she completely mad?!_

He groans but obeys, breaking into a light jog in the general direction of the emergency stairs. Still out of breath, he follows the noises until he finds his way out of the building. Gravel grates under his shoes, and wind blows in his hair, and everything is silent, and _he has no idea where the man went_ – until tires screech behind him, headlights come charging, and he barely has time to whirl out of the car's way before it rushes past him, flies out the gates and crashes into another vehicle.

"Are you okay?" yells Lisbon from afar.

"Fine," he answers, winded. "I'm fine."

She runs to the site of the crash, gun in hand – and he'll _never_ understand the urge to move _toward_ danger, so he stays to the side and waits as she gets closer to the car, and closer still, until she passes her arm through the shattered glass and gasps.

"Oh God. He's dead."

For a second, the look they share is filled with sharp, naked relief – _he's dead he won't tell anyone they won't have to talk about it_ – and, in her case at least, a heaping amount of guilt. Then a moan echoes in the night, and professionalism takes over once more.

"Call an ambulance," she says, running to the second car.

After hanging up, he joins her near the second victim, who lost consciousness. Lisbon is pressing on a wound near his neck – blood is leaking, not pulsing, but if the ambulance doesn't hurry the stranger will die.

"I, uh – I was thinking – "

"Yes?" she says, keeping her eyes on the unconscious man.

"We, uh – we could use this."

She looks up at him.

"Use what?"

"Him."

"He's dead."

"Yes."

" _Explain_ , Jane."

"Well," he hesitates, then grins. "You're not gonna like it."

She lets out a sharp breath – not really a sigh – and turns back to the stranger.

"Listening," she says.

"If we use the body to make Crew and Batson believe he gave them up, we could get a confession."

She looks up at him again, obviously wondering if he turned insane.

"They'll clam up otherwise, you know it," he adds quickly. "They're politicians – self-serving breed. Threaten them all at the same time, they'll turn on each other."

She bites her bottom lip.

"How certain are you it's one of them?"

"Reasonably."

"Give me a percentage."

"Oh, about – 85%, give or take."

"That leaves 15% to chance."

"We don't have any other suspect."

"We have the brother."

He rolls his eyes.

"It's not the brother. _Trust me_ , Lisbon. That one's guilty of a lot of things, but not murder. He doesn't have the guts to kill, _or_ the resources to hire our dead guy over there."

They can hear the sirens of an ambulance coming closer.

"Which one of them is it?" she asks, and he can see she's about to give in.

He taps a thumb on his chin twice, thinking.

"Batson," he says.

"Which one?"

"Her."

"Why?"

He grins.

"Wouldn't you rather it be a surprise?"

She glares.

"Guess that means no. Well – I can't be sure," he shrugs. "My take would be jealousy. Kristin Marley was sleeping with both father and daughter."

"Why not Crew then?"

"Too calculating. Melinda Batson is still young enough to be impulsive, fall in love. I bet staying in the closet wasn't her idea in the first place – a secret that big would eat at her until she starts making mistakes, unconsciously hoping to be found out."

Lisbon glances up sharply, but the ambulance stopping nearby prevents them from talking further.

"I'll arrange it," she says, before the aid workers take her place. "Call the team back here."

Later, as they wait for their three suspects to meet them in the bullpen, she comes and stands near him, bumping his shoulder lightly.

"Jane."

"Hm?"

"You may be right."

"I'm always right," he grins. "What about this time?"

She rolls her eyes.

"About Batson – about her staying in the closet not being her own idea. You _may_ be right."

"But?" he prompts.

A quick glance his way, and then she looks everywhere but at him again.

" _But_ ," she says. "We don't know her circumstances. She could just be a private person."

"She's a politician."

"Yes, that's another thing. She _is_ a politician – "

"Come on, Lisbon, there are openly gay politicians. Not much, but they exist."

" – and _also_ a woman. She may not have been ashamed of herself, but being a woman in her line of work would be hard enough not to add another difficulty. You said it yourself – she doesn't have that much of a thick skin."

"Perhaps."

"Point is, _you don't know_. There's no need to go and say – _things_ about unconsciously wanting to be found out."

He waits – her spine is stiff with tension, and clearly she isn't finished. But when she speaks again, it's so quiet he nearly misses it.

"And – sometimes, some things are best left unsaid. Sometimes, when you have a secret, it's – _safer_. Not to say a word."

He swallows.

"Are we still talking about closets?" he smiles – tries to, at least.

She turns her head. Holds his gaze.

"What else would we be talking about?"

The back of his hand brushes against hers, barely a touch really, and all words die on his tongue.

* * *

"You _abused a corpse_ to get a confession," says Minelli, staring at them mouth open.

"Used! Used a corpse. There's no 'ab'."

"I'm – appalled, I'm – _I don't know what to say_."

"Sir," she says. "It's not like we killed him. His neck was broken in the crash!"

"We got a confession!" adds Jane.

And, _oh God_ , she can just hear the laughter in his voice – if he lets any of it out, Minelli will sack them all, she just knows. She _has_ to find a way to turn this to their advantage.

"Suppose you _didn't!_ Suppose you'd been _wrong_. Have you _any idea_ of the vastness of the crap storm that would follow? _It would blot out the sun!_ "

"Sir, Crew and Batson manipulated us into arresting the wrong person. They bugged our offices and subverted our case. I don't think we did anything wrong! I think we should be commended."

 _Go big, or go home._

She waits, trying hard not to cringe, as Minelli stares at her, then smiles joylessly and turns to her partner.

"Congratulations, you finally got her to drink the kool-aid."

Jane immediately breaks eye contact – and she sends a quick thanks to Heavens that he didn't start _chuckling_ instead.

" _Check yourself_ , agent," adds Minelli. " _All_ of you."

He leaves, bristling like an offended school teacher, and she can't help the small sigh of relief from escaping her lungs.

"Well, I thought that went pretty well," says Jane.

"Great, yeah."

"Highlight for me was definitely your speech."

She raises an eyebrow.

"Passionate," he adds. "Articulate. Strong."

His expression doesn't change – neutral, with a side of laughter. She rolls her eyes.

"Whatever."

She quickly escapes to her office – and, once the door closes behind her, allows herself five minutes of uninterrupted grinning.

That was _fun_.

Risky, certainly. A gamble of dubious morality. If Jane had been wrong, if somehow Batson didn't crack, if all three lawyered up before hey could get a confession, it would have been a disaster. But somehow it just adds to the bubble of exhilaration waiting to burst inside her – and perhaps this is what Jane feels, every time he gets away with one of his stunts.

No wonder he keeps doing it, again and again, no matter how many times he gets insulted, yelled at or punched in the face.

 _No wonder he's so out of control._

There's no time to spend on that, however – she still has a whole stack of forms to fill and complaints to answer to before the day is over. And the fact she spent most of last night tricking suspects and registering confessions – she didn't go back home, unlike her team – doesn't give her a free pass on the paperwork today. So she settles herself at her desk, picks up a pen, and gets to it.

When she surfaces from her work, hours later, her stomach is growling and she realises she missed lunch again.

After all those weeks of non-stop nausea, feeling hungry is an alien sensation. Her mind starts to wander toward the medical appointment she had last week, and the next one she'll have on – _when_ is it supposed to be again? If she's getting better, perhaps she doesn't need to go.

 _No. You have to._

She bites her lip. Gets up, leaves her office – a feeble way to run from her thoughts.

"Are you all done with your reports on the Milbank case?" she asks, stopping near Van Pelt's desk.

Cho and Van Pelt nod.

"Still finishing the incident report," says Rigsby, yawning.

"Okay. Cho, did SacPD give you their Form 106 for the crystal meth they lost?"

"They were supposed to fax it yesterday, when I called this morning they said it was mailed instead."

" _Mailed?!_ "

"Rookie made a mistake."

" _Some_ mistake. Let's hope they didn't send it to Fresno."

"Yeah. I'll check downstairs if they got it."

"No need, I'll do it. We're eight on roll, probably won't get a new case today. Long day yesterday – as long as you keep your phones nearby, you can have your afternoon. Rigsby, get your report done before you leave."

They chorus their thanks and she glances toward Jane, who's lying down on his couch, hands on his stomach and eyes on the ceiling.

"Jane," she calls.

No reaction.

" _Jane!_ "

He startles, looks up at her.

"Yes?"

"What are you doing?"

He blinks.

"Uh, thinking. Do we have a case?"

"No. But you're too quiet – it's making me nervous. What are you up to?"

He grins, lies back down in his previous position.

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with," he answers, hand waving in the air.

She narrows her eyes at him – but he closes his, a perfect picture of calm and contentment, and she shrugs, decides not to bother.

As long as he stays on his couch, she can keep an eye on him, no matter what his hyperactive brain comes up with.

The mail room downstairs isn't a place she often needs to visit – she gets the feeling it isn't a place much visited, period. But she prides herself in recognising all of her co-workers by sight and is already familiar with Denise, the woman who makes the delivery rounds.

The man sorting mail in that room _definitely_ isn't Denise.

Tall, at least six feet. Lean, athletic physique – not overly muscular, but just enough to hint at an active lifestyle. Short black hair, and a five o'clock shadow on his chiselled jaw. Large, strong hands, the kind that immediately brings devious pictures to her mind – and no ring, thank God.

Cheeks already flushed with a rush of arousal, her heartbeat picks up when her gaze lingers on the half-opened light shirt, the rolled up sleeves displaying smooth tanned skin. Cuban descent, perhaps? He looks to be in his late twenties, a tad younger than she is – _who cares_.

He's _hot_.

She loses count of the seconds she spends staring before he notices her waiting – but when he does, the appreciative smile he sends her way blinds her a little.

"Hi. Can I help you?"

His voice is deep and soft, perfect to whisper lascivious words in the ear of a lover. The long lashes framing his warm brown eyes hint at just the _right_ amount of sensuality she likes in a man – and the way he admires her openly displays _everything else_.

She swallows hard.

 _Get a grip, damnit._

"Uh, yeah," she says, trying to push down on a foolish grin. "My unit is waiting for some mail from SacPD, wanted to know if you got it already. Could you please check for me?"

"Of course. I'll need the name of your team leader – wouldn't mind yours either," he adds, smile widening.

She cringes, suddenly back to Earth. If she didn't need those SacPD forms, she'd turn away right now – because she already knows how this is going to end.

 _Awkwardly_.

"Teresa Lisbon. Team leader for the SCU. The mail should be addressed to me."

"Oh. _Oh_. Of course, ma'am. I'll check right now."

It never fails.

The price of being a cop, she learned years ago – the price of being young and talented and passionate about her work.

The price of being the _female_ team leader of the best CBI unit.

"Here," says the young man, his smile now bland and perfunctory.

"Thanks," she answers, tone clipped and professional.

 _It's not like you were planning on doing anything about it, anyway._

The clap of her heels echoes in the hallway as she leaves the mail room behind. She sighs, then shrugs to herself.

 _At least he was nice to look at._

She makes a quick stop at the food cart upstairs and buys herself a snack, enough to quiet her stomach without spoiling her appetite. Her intention was to get back to her office and make as sizable a dent in her paperwork as possible before leaving time – but then _Sam_ gets in the elevator behind her, and the storm on his face makes it clear that, if it's up to him, she won't get much work done this afternoon.

"Can we talk?" he asks.

For a moment, she's tempted to refuse – though she decided not to confront him about what happened before she left for Chicago, they didn't really talk since, and she still feels a small sting of hurt every time they cross paths. But she never was the type to hold grudges, and they do need to clear the air.

"Fine."

The silence between them is oppressive.

"Don't let anyone disturb us," he says to Rebecca as they get to his office.

He holds the door for her, points to the chairs facing his own – but she stays up, crosses her arms on her chest. This isn't a conversation she wants to be sitting for. He mimics her position, hip leaning against his desk, and she can't figure out if it's deliberate or not.

It annoys her.

"A corpse," he starts – and she frowns.

It's so far from what she thought he would say, she can't help feeling disconcerted.

"What?"

"You and Jane used a corpse as _prop_."

The frown becomes a scowl.

"Is that why you asked me here? 'Cause I don't need to hear that from you. Go take it up with Minelli."

He purses his lips – thin to begin with, they're barely a line over his chin now.

"Work with me here, Teresa. I'm trying to understand why a smart woman like you would endanger her career with dumb-ass moves like that. Are you and Jane involved?"

"We work together," she answers, frosty. "I guess that means we're involved."

Sam glares.

"Don't play coy, you know what I mean."

"Actually I don't. You'll have to _spell it out_."

Oh. Perhaps she _can_ hold a grudge, after all.

"Are you and Jane in a romantic relationship?" he tries again, throwing his shoulders backward – making himself look taller, towering over her.

Such an obvious intimidation technique.

She laughs – cold and angry and humourless.

"No. We are _not_. As I said, _we work together_. Dating is against regulation for CBI employees."

"Then, are you – soulmates?"

"That's none of your business."

"Which means you are."

"Which means it's _none of your business_. Didn't we already clear the air about this last year? Jane and I _aren't_ in a romantic relationship – that's all you need to know."

"Then why am hearing noises about you two secretly going out?"

She gapes – then laughs again, anger burning its way through her self-control.

"You mean secretly _sleeping together_ , right? Come on, Sam, no need to be _polite_. What's the exact wording? Is it still 'Patrick Jane and Teresa Lisbon are banging each other's brains out in the middle of the bullpen', or did it change again? Where are we supposed to do it these days, huh? The couch, or is it on a desk? Did we include Cho? Rigsby? Van Pelt? Did we include _you?_ "

"I can't believe you're not taking this seriously."

" _I_ can't believe you – _you,_ Sam, _of all people!_ – would hold stupid rumours against me!"

She turns away, seething, paces a few steps – then turns toward him again, unable to decide if she wants to face him or if she can't bear to look at his face.

"I could understand overhearing things in bathroom stalls, at coffee break. I could understand Dr. Carmen bringing it up. But _you?_ I didn't ask for this, and _you_ should know better than to believe it!"

"I _did_ know better," he says, eyes narrowing. "Then a month ago I saw you two _cuddle_ in the parking lot, and now you're desecrating bodies to get confessions. What am I supposed to think, huh? Anybody else would have gone straight up to Minelli!"

"Oh, _really?_ If you're so convinced I'm doing something wrong, why didn't you?"

He glares, but his shoulders hunch slightly.

"We've worked together a long time. I owed you at least a chance to explain yourself."

"What you owe me is benefit of doubt, Sam. Try again."

"You know why. You _know_ why I wanted to talk to you first."

His eyes shift to the left, and she glares.

"Sheepdip."

"What?"

" _Sheepdip_ ," she repeats. "That's not why you didn't go to Minelli – how many years have I been keeping this secret? It would take _a lot_ for me to rat you out, and _you know that_. Just like you know those accusations are a load of crap."

"Teresa, with your attitude lately? I don't know _anything_ anymore."

The expression on his face, chin raised and cold glare, she saw him use it on hundreds of suspects before.

It doesn't impress her much.

"You _jerk_. You know I'd never flaunt the rules like that, not even for a soulmate. You know I'd give Jane to another unit if we really were – _involved_. So what's your game here? Are you just trying to piss me off for no reason? 'Cause if that's what you're after, I gotta say _congratulations_. It's working."

He appears taken aback by her outburst – didn't foresee her turning the tables on him, obviously. He must have expected her to try to explain and shut her mouth and let him have the upper hand – just like she used to when they worked together in San Francisco, because she never made a secret of the fact she respects authority. She never made a secret of how she'll accept undeserved blame to keep peace among her unit.

Did he learn _nothing_ from that conversation they had five years ago?

 _I don't have to explain myself to you anymore._

"What did Jane do to you?" she asks, just as he opens his mouth to protest. "Did he spit in your coffee? Eat your last doughnut?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"It's the only thing that makes sense. Jane did something to you or your unit, and now you're taking it out on me."

"I'm not taking anything out on you."

" _Yes_. You are. You're being petty and childish, Sam, and that's – that's something I expect from _Jane_ , not from you."

His frown darkens – clearly despises the comparison.

 _Good._

"I'm _concerned_. That's all. You're overreacting."

" _I'm_ overreacting? _You're_ the one treating me like a suspect. What else is your _concern_ making you do these days, other than accusing me of banging my team members, huh?"

"Teresa, _stop_."

"Because I'm really wondering now, Sam! If you're ready to stoop so low, what else were you planning to do? What else have you _already done?_ Are you secretly trying to poach my team members? Steal my cases?"

It was just frustration talking, a shot in the dark, not something she really believed – but he flinches so overtly, suddenly she realises perhaps this is a question she should have asked herself earlier.

"Oh my God. It's true," she says, eyes wide open. " _Sam!_ Are you responsible for Minelli taking Red John from us?"

"Of course not," he answers unconvincingly.

" _God_ , you're such a terrible liar – even I can see it. _You_ engineered this! Why would you _do_ that?"

"I didn't _engineer_ it. Minelli came up with the idea, _he_ asked, _I_ said yes. That's all. If I hadn't, he would have given it to someone else."

"If you hadn't, he wouldn't have _found_ someone else to take it!"

He has the grace to look away.

"It's not like I _asked_ Minelli to give it to me."

"Oh _please_. What was it you said to me, five years ago? 'This case is a career sink, nobody wants it, you should stay away'? You planned this – with all the ruckus back then and Minelli's demotion last year, he would never decide to just _reassign_ it. Not when I'm still willing to risk my neck out there!"

Something cruel passes on his face and she braces herself – Sam's jabs are always carefully calculated to do maximum damage. But he deflates instead, pulls his chair and sits, arms flat against the top of his desk. Then he looks up, something vulnerable in his eyes, and she bristles because while he appears genuine, she feels manipulated – she just doesn't know how to counter it when he suddenly looks like the broken shell of a man.

Just like he did that day, eight years ago.

He makes a brief beckoning hand gesture, and she chews the inside of her cheek a few seconds before pulling another chair nearby. Another small moment of hesitation, and she settles in front of him, crosses her arms on her chest again, and waits.

For a moment she wishes they were having this confrontation in her office instead – on _her_ territory.

"Minelli was worried about you," he says. "We had a drink together last month, about a week after – "

"The Tanner incident."

"Yeah. He said you were acting weird. Emotional outbursts, lack of sleep, skipping meals. The shrink wasn't signing off on you – still hasn't, right? – and Jane was taking advantage."

"That's _not_ true!"

"Really? 'Cause from where I stand, Teresa – and from where Minelli stands too – in the last few weeks we've seen you let him get away with a lot more crap than he used to. And today's just the last straw on a long list. Want me to give you a full resume?"

She takes a deep breath, tries to calm herself – as unfair as it sounds, if she appears overly emotional, she'll just prove his point.

"Even if that was true, _and it's not_ – even if it was, _you_ are not my boss! Minelli let us off the hook this morning – it's not your job to request an explanation. And it's _certainly not_ your place to decide whether or not I'm fit to work a case, damnit!"

"But _it is_ my job to say yes when Minelli personally asks me to take a case. And frankly, I had incentive. _You nearly died!_ You're not be my rookie anymore, _fine_ – but I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you that I could have prevented."

She rolls her eyes.

"I hope you realise how patronising that sounds."

"I'm not trying to be patronising, I'm trying to tell you _I care_."

" _Fine_. You care, whatever. What about your own career then?"

"What about my career?"

"Five years ago you tried to convince me not to take the Red John case because you thought it was a bad career move! What about yours? We didn't make a lot of progress since then, and heat is still coming strong from upstairs. You may have new leads now because of the Tanner incident, but – oh, unless _that_ was a bust too?"

He shoots her a warning glance, and she scoffs.

"A bust, then. You don't have anything better than we had – worse, you don't have Jane on your side. There won't be any shortcuts for you."

"I don't need Jane's circus act to do good police work, and _you_ shouldn't either."

"You may not agree with his methods, but you can't argue with his results. This case isn't any easier than it was back then. How did you stop being afraid it's gonna ruin you?"

"Did you _really_ think that's the reason I didn't take the case?"

She raises her eyebrows.

"You never gave me any other explanation. What then?"

Sam opens his mouth, then closes it. Stares at her for a moment, a peculiar expression on his face – one she can't quite decipher, and not for the first time she wishes she had Jane's ability to read body language.

"Because," he answers, every word measured. "Last time I was hunting a serial killer, it didn't work out too well. My _career_ isn't what I'm afraid to ruin."

She swallows, looks down. Uncrosses her arms.

"And now?"

He hesitates, eyes drawn to the pictures of his family, and it's all she needs to know.

"How did Minelli convince you to take it, then?"

"You got too close to the case. Nearly died for it."

"Sam, _come on!_ It's not the first close call I had, won't be the last. _That's our job_. I don't have to tell you that."

"But this time you got too close. It changed you."

She jumps out of her chair, clamps down on the urge to pace, on the urge to straighten the piles of folders on his desk. Walks to the window, looks outside. Tries to calm herself. When she turns back to him he's standing nearby, watching her with a contemplating expression, appraising her every move – appraising her silence.

"Okay. _Maybe_ you're right," she says through clenched teeth. " _Maybe_ we got too close. _I_ don't see it, but everybody tells me that, so there might be some truth to it. _Fine_."

She takes a deep breath, steadies herself. Her right hand climbs up, clutches at her cross.

"I can deal with you taking over the case – you're a good cop. Fresh set of eyes, never a bad idea."

The left one closes on itself.

"And frankly I hope you catch him. Bring him to justice. Red John needs to be stopped – who gets the collar doesn't matter in the long run."

" _But?_ " says Sam, one eyebrow raised. "If you're asking to be kept in the loop about the case, that's not gonna happen."

"No. What I want – _what you owe me_ – is to be there for the take down. Me, and my team."

"Not Jane."

"He's part of my team."

"Not gonna happen."

She glares.

" _You_ won't be able to take him down with just four people, and _we_ need to be there. We need to see this to its end. This case was – _is_ important to us, Sam."

"You mean to Jane."

"Everything isn't about Jane! This case is important _to me_."

"How so?"

She _nearly_ opens her mouth, _nearly_ tells him – but this is not her secret to share.

"We need to be there when you take him down. _I_ need to be there," she says instead – nearly pleading now, because he could _never_ resist her when she did that before.

And it's working, too. He's faltering – she can see the way he chews on the inside of his cheek.

"I don't need to be kept in the loop. You don't have to tell us anything until it's about to happen. Just – _please_ , Sam. Let me and my team be there, work with you. Please – for old times sake?"

"When that happens, I'll be in charge," he says.

"Of course."

"My people will be on the front lines with SWAT. Yours stay behind as back-up."

"Okay."

"Jane stays in the vehicle."

She hesitates.

"You may consider him part of your team, but when it comes to it, he's got no training – an unarmed civilian. If you can't keep him out of the way, I can't bring you with me."

She bites her lip, then nods.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah. Fine. Jane stays inside – he won't like it, but you're right. At least he'll be there with us."

Sam still has misgivings, she can see it plain as day – but she holds his gaze, unwavering, and after a few seconds he nods.

"Alright. I'll call you for the take-down on the day we get there," he says.

"Thank you."

"So – we good?"

She nearly nods, then thinks better of it.

"Depends."

He waits, expression perplexed.

"No more listening to hearsays about me. No more accusations of sleeping with Jane – or anyone else, for that matter. No more interrogation about my personal life," she says, ticking each item on her fingers. "And _no more stealing my cases_. Ever again."

"I didn't _steal_ your case."

She raises en eyebrow. He looks away.

"Don't do that again, Sam – I mean it. I value your trust and respect a lot more than your concern. As long as you keep that in mind, we're good."

He purses his lips again, but nods. She gets up, walks to the door – turns back to him, and offers a small smile.

"See you around."

There's only Van Pelt in the bullpen when she comes back to the SCU's floor. The sight of Jane's empty couch is both disquieting and a relief. His absence makes her nervous, especially when she remembers his peculiar attitude earlier. On the other hand, facing him minutes after that discussion would have been – _awkward_ , to say the least. No doubt he would seized her up in one glance, and the knowledge of what is being said about them is still at the forefront of her mind.

It may not bother her professionally, but it doesn't mean she's immune to the personal embarrassment.

"Hey Van Pelt. Have you seen Jane?" she asks.

"Yeah, he left about half an hour ago. It was really odd."

"Odd? How so?"

"Well, he was really quiet so I thought he was sleeping, but suddenly he started laughing all on his own."

" _Laughing?_ "

"Yeah. Then he went pale, got up and just left. No idea where he went."

She chews on her bottom lip.

"I've never heard Jane laugh before."

"Me neither! It was so _weird_. Rigsby told me he saw him do it once – after stealing that painting from the Russian Mafia last year?"

"I remember," she says, rolling her eyes. "So he laughs when he's hyped up after a successful high-stakes con – _very_ reassuring. Do you have an idea what he could be up to this time?"

"None, sorry."

She sighs. Picks up her phone – the call goes straight to voice mail.

 _Of course it does_.

"Alright. He'll turn up, I guess. When he comes back, tell him to come to my office so I know what kind of damage control I'll need to do."

"Will do!"

She watches her agent typing at her computer a moment.

"Didn't I give you time off? What are you still doing here?" she asks, not unkindly.

"Oh, just filling in my report for the Marley case," Van Pelt answers. "I hate it when I have paperwork waiting for me in the morning."

She smiles.

"I'll leave you to it then."

Van Pelt beams, hearing the approval in her voice, and she gets back to her office with plans to do the same. The sleepless night is starting to take its toll, however – after one more hour of work, the second yawn in a row, and reading the same paragraph three times, she decides perhaps leaving early wouldn't be such a bad idea.

Leaving early, or coffee.

Or both.

 _Both. Definitely both._

"Still no Jane?" she asks Van Pelt, who shakes her head.

The empty couch is taunting her with promises of disaster.

"Alright, I'm leaving. If he turns up, tell him I'll deal with whatever mess he made tomorrow morning."

Van Pelt's soft laugher follows her to the elevator. Hurried steps come closer as she pushes on the call button – when she turns around, Dr. Carmen is walking briskly toward her, cup of coffee and briefcase in hand.

"Teresa, are you leaving already?"

"Yes. Long night, even longer day. Is there a problem?" she answers, frowning.

The man is sweating profusely, she notices with disgust. Then she gets a waft of coffee and nearly moans in delight. It smells so _fresh_.

"Actually, I was on my way to see you. There's a complication regarding your appointment this Friday, we'll have to reschedule. Your team is still fifth on roll call, so I figured – would tomorrow morning be a good time?"

"Uh, let me check."

She picks up her planner, turns a few pages.

 _Hospital. Right.  
_

"Uh, no. I already have a medical appointment. Guess we'll have to skip a week, huh?" she grins.

Dr. Carmen gives her a look.

"Nice try. Thursday morning?"

She sighs and nods.

"Day after tomorrow, that could work if we don't get a new case. Let me write it down – "

"Here," he says, giving her a pen.

"Thanks. Thursday morning at – ten, as usual?"

"Nine. I have another appointment at ten."

"Okay."

A yawn ambushes her as she gives the pen back and puts her planner away.

"Oops," he says, smiling. "Hard at work these days, huh? Here, take this, you look like you need it more than I do."

He gives her his coffee – she hesitates, but he pushes it in her hands, and it smells _so good_. At this point she isn't even sure she'll be able to drive back without falling asleep at the wheel. She _really_ could do with the caffeine.

"Thanks," she says, swallowing half of it at once – and nearly spitting it out again. "Urgh, this is disgusting! What the hell did you put in there?"

He laughs.

"Too much nutmeg? It's supposed to give an extra kick."

"There's an extra kick alright – my taste buds will need EMT to recover."

She quickly drains the foul liquid with a grimace, puts the empty cup back into his waiting hands, and pushes the elevator call button again. The odd metallic bitterness lingers in her mouth, and she can't wait to wash it off.

"So – medical appointment, you said? Are you unwell?" he asks, wiping his forehead with his sleeve.

"Just some blood tests," she lies.

Blood tests _are_ scheduled, of course, to rule out anaemia and other vitamin deficiencies – so technically she isn't _really_ lying. But this isn't something she wants to talk about. To her shrink, or anyone else.

She isn't ready to share the humiliating questions about her alcohol intake, nor the suspicious look she got when she denied taking drugs.

She isn't ready to share the concern and pity she got from her physician when they discussed scheduling a MRI, to make sure her headaches don't have a more alarming cause.

She isn't ready to share the latent fear just waiting to jump on her if she starts thinking about it – about lives cut short by illness and injuries _and accidents and hit and runs and cars driving away in the middle of the night and –_

 _STOP._

"Routine tox screen, nothing to worry about," she adds, with a smile she hopes appears sincere.

Judging by Dr. Carmen's widening eyes and beads of sweat rolling down his neck, it's not very effective. Fortunately the elevator stops behind her with a loud ping, and she can make her escape before he asks more questions.

"Thursday morning," he says, oddly strangled. "Don't be late."

"See you then," she calls back as the doors close.

'Relief' is too weak a word to describe the emotion gripping her as she makes her way out of the building and leaves everything behind – the endless complaints, Jane's convoluted schemes, those malicious rumours that keep coming up, Bosco's patronising act, _all the paperwork_ , Dr. Carmen's baffling refusal to sign off on her – _everything_. This day is over and she can relax.

 _Finally._

There's a small blinking light on the dashboard – she's running low on gas. With a yawn, she pulls over at the nearest gas station, fills the tank – and as she walks back to her car, she realises the ground isn't as stable as it should. For a second, she wonders if they're having an earthquake – but people walking on the nearby streets are acting normal, no sign of alarm, and the dizziness making her legs wobbly only gets stronger. She sits and stays head between her knees for a moment – but the smell of gas is making her sick, so she pulls herself together and drives away slowly, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

 _This isn't normal._

Pain starts pulsing behind her eyes, sudden and strong, and small dancing sparks of light blur her vision. She drives away on autopilot, concentrating on the road as much as she can. Hoping to get home without causing an accident, without hitting anyone, without crashing her vehicle – she isn't sure if the honks she hears are from other drivers or from the blood _pounding, pounding, pounding_ in her head.

 _Damnit! I thought it was getting better!_

She manages to get back to her place in one piece, parks as well as possible – as long as she can get out of her car without breaking a window, it's good enough for now. Getting inside is a strenuous process – climbing up the stairs on unsteady feet, relying on the railing to support her weight, making frequent stops as she tries to _breathe_. She has no idea how much time she spends trying to fit the key inside the lock, but when the door finally opens, she loses balance and nearly falls flat on her face.

Locking the door behind her is easier, at least – she can do it from a sitting position, and then crawl until she reaches a chair, pulling herself back up. She stops caring what it looks like, forgets about the humiliation she should feel – _would_ feel if her body was responding normally. But right now her mind is blank with fog and panic, her muscles struggling just to stay in motion, and she has no energy left for anything else.

Just another step, she tries to tell herself. Just another step. Another. And another, to reach the stairs. Another, to reach her room. A last one, and then her bed. She kicks off her shoes, uncaring where they fall, and crawls under the blankets – everything will be fine is she can just close her eyes.

But she can't.

She can't, because –

Because –

– something is ringing.

Something is ringing, and she cannot sleep.

It's an annoying noise, one that echoes painfully in her skull, comes from every direction at once, stops and starts and stops and starts again – until her fingers pat her buzzing pocket and accidentally find the source of the ringing.

A small, black, flat device.

Still ringing.

Her phone.

Ringing.

Her phone is ringing.

 _Crap._

Fingers working blindly, she flips it open – at least hopes that's what she's doing, because there's still so many lights dancing before her eyes, she has no idea what is going on.

"Yeah?" she tries to say.

Her mouth, or voice – she isn't sure which – isn't working as it should.

"Lisbon?"

 _Lisbon. That's me._

"Yeah," she repeats.

"Lisbon, _finally!_ Is everything alright?"

"Fine," she mutters – the whistling consonant swirling and slipping and pounding in time with the pain in her head.

The voice on the other end of the line says something but it sounds garbled, a succession of syllables strung together with no discernible meaning.

"I gotta go," she mumbles, interrupting the flow of strange, unidentifiable words. "Gotta – gotta go. Call you later."

"Lisbon, _wait_ – "

She doesn't.

She can't.

Dark oblivion is already upon her.

* * *

 **Next chapter will be posted somewhere between mid to end of August.**

As it's summer, I'll be taking a much needed vacation –

– heh. Just kidding.

July being one of the three NaNoWriMo months (I'll let you google that!), I'll be hard at work writing as much as I can. Hopefully by the end of the month, I'll have a minimum of 40k worth of first draft material, which will then be edited into new chapters early August.

My writing groups has an ongoing prompts challenge which you can find in my profile. Everyone is welcome, and if you post the results around here please tell me!

In the meantime, bonne St-Jean en retard aux Québécois, happy Canada Day, happy Fourth of July, joyeux 14 Juillet, have a nice [any other celebration I don't know about], enjoy your summertime or, if you're living down under, wintertime (just so you know, I'm very jealous of your current cold weather).

And see you in August! :-)


	10. Part 8

_**Disclaimer: As you probably guessed by now, this show and its characters aren't mine.**_

 **A/N:** Many thanks to **LouiseKurylo** and **Thorntons** , whose advices proved invaluable for the writing of this chapter.

 **Warnings:** PTSD symptoms, including but not limited to visual and emotional flashbacks, irrational thinking patterns, and dissociation/derealisation. Canon over-sedation leading to major confusion and memory loss, with everything it entails.

 **Second warnings:** I hope I don't have to remind you that, should you encounter an unresponsive person, you need to seek urgent medical assistance even if their condition doesn't seem life-threatening. Aka, even accounting for the embedded 'Lisbon-safety' alarm bell in his hand, Jane in this chapter is an irresponsible idiot.

 **Spoilers:** Some dialogues are taken directly from 2.03 "Red Badge". Slight allusion to events occurring in 1.02 "Red Hair and Silver Tape" and 1.16 "Bloodshot".

* * *

 **Kindred**  
 **Part 8**

His hand starts prickling just as he finishes his meal.

He doesn't notice right away. His mind is elsewhere. Full of satisfaction after having played Bosco, and successfully planting the bug in his office – in such a timely manner, too. Full of mirth after overhearing him trying to browbeat Lisbon, and getting the tables turned on him. Full of –

– _something_ , anyway. How did he miss all those rumours? Getting revenge on naysayers would have made for so many hours of entertainment while Lisbon was away.

The taco had more hot sauce than usual, and his hands are covered in the stuff – assuming its heat is irritating some micro-cut in his palm isn't that much of a stretch.

Just some random, distracting body input.

Nothing to worry about.

Then the prickling becomes throbbing – and he inhales sharply, picks up the phone in his pocket, uncaring how much sauce he butters it with.

No answer.

He starts running.

He thought, all those weeks ago, that his hand burning while Lisbon was facing the wrong end of a shotgun was terrible. Not the worst – not the _worst_ by a long shot – but certainly _one_ of the worst things he ever had to go through.

Right up there, in the top five of his own personal list of horrors.

And it was. It was, but this – his hand burning without having the faintest idea of _what_ is threatening her – this is _so much worse_.

He gets to the building, by-passes security before anyone can stop him, takes a quick trip up the stairs, across the hallway and directly to her office. It's empty. His hand is burning steadily, a low heat not strong enough to hurt but _noticeable_ , and _where is she?!_

Van Pelt half rises in alarm when he emerges in the bullpen, short of breath and sweating.

"Where's Lisbon?" he asks, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Uh, she went home half an hour ago. Why?"

"Are you sure?

"Well, that's what she said. Jane, what's going on?"

"Never mind."

Pain in his hand flashes bright and searing for a second, and he clenches his teeth, picks up his phone a second time. Time stretches wide as he waits for her to answer, and waits, and _waits_ – then finds himself unable to wait any longer.

Phone still glued to his ear, he runs back to her office and looks through her files until he finds the one titled 'Team: Home and Emergency Contact'. Calls another time when he reaches voice mail. One glance to memorise her address, then he sprints right out to the parking lot.

He calls again as he turns the contact. Three times he reached voice mail now.

 _Answer, damnit!_

"Yeah?" suddenly says a strange voice at the other end of the line.

"Lisbon?" he frowns.

The voice is hers, but the speech pattern is all wrong – robotic and muted, without a trace of her signature expressiveness.

"Yeah," she repeats, just as he's about to call to her again.

"Lisbon, _finally!_ Is everything alright?"

"Fine."

She doesn't sound _fine_ at all.

"What _happened?_ I felt my – I mean – _where are you?_ Are you home?"

Silence.

" _Talk to me!_ " he nearly yells. "Do I need to call for help? You were _in danger_ just now. _You still are!_ What is – "

"I gotta go," she interrupts, still oddly muted. "Gotta – gotta go. Call you later."

"Lisbon, _wait!_ "

She hangs up.

Five full seconds he stays staring ahead, dead phone silent on his ear, mouth half-open in disbelief, lost in pictures of _danger and fear and death and blood and screams and_ –

Then panic pushes him into action. How much time to get to Lisbon's place? Half an hour, tops? He can probably get there in fifteen, as long as he avoids traffic. Fifteen minutes is a long time, long enough to drown, to die from blood loss, but no longer than ambulances take to respond to an emergency, no longer than – than –

Fifteen minutes is _a long time_ , and he better get there _fast_.

The burning is down to a prickle again, there's that at least – how much of a threat can a prickle mean, anyway? Last time it didn't truly _hurt_ until Tanner was up and pointing the shotgun at her, but the warning prickles started long before he was even off the gurney. Are murderous thoughts directed at her enough to cause his soulmark to react, or is he just unnaturally sensitive to pain in that hand, just as he doesn't deal well with pain in general? And even if murderous thoughts were enough to cause his palm to heat up, who would be foolish enough to direct theirs toward a _cop?_

 _Red John_ , whispers his mind.

But that's absurd. Isn't it? The very fact Lisbon is a woman should make her safe from him – Red John's a misogynist, and his killings have all the markings of sexual hate crimes. Killing her would risk his case getting into the hands of a man.

He winces when he remembers Lisbon currently _doesn't have_ the case.

But still, that makes no sense. Why would he target Lisbon? He has no reason to – she should be beneath his notice, anyway. Tanner said Red John wanted _him_ personally. Not the team. Not Lisbon. _Him_. If he, Patrick Jane, is the primary target, what reason would Red John have to threaten _Lisbon?_

Unless –

Unless Red John knows about –

– _about_ –

His left hand tightens on the wheel while his right changes gears, foot crushing the clutch pedal, then the throttle, accelerating his already mad pace.

 _No. He can't know. That's impossible._

Right?

He can't – there's no way he could have known.

But –

– they never figured out how Red John got away that night at Sparrows Peak. Was he already gone when he shot Tanner? Or was he still around, looking from a distance? Was he perhaps close by, mixed in with local PD and CSI techs?

Did he see Lisbon wash the blood off his hands, and the way he grasped at her afterwards?

 _I'll never be able to let her out of my sight again._

He narrowly misses another car, and slows down just enough to get back in control of the vehicle. A man out on the street curses at him, but he's already too far away to make out the words – not that he cares about them in the first place.

 _Then again, if Red John doesn't know –_

The heat in his left hand is down to a tickle, only noticeable if he pays close attention – and that allows him to re-engage his brain enough to know he can't park near her place. His Citroën is too widely recognisable.

Cho was able to guess _something_ from the way they are around each other – and while he has nothing but respect for Cho's cleverness, even if it doesn't reach his own, there's no denying that Red John is _smarter_.

And if Red John _doesn't_ know, then it means he needs to lay low, because –

– _rushingtoacrimesceneNOshe'snotdeadnotdeadnotdead –_

– rushing to _her place_ in those circumstances certainly isn't _subtle_.

One quick turn around a corner, and he's two blocks from her apartment. He parks on the street, breaks into a quick jog. Five more minutes – and as soon as he gets nearby, he zooms in on her mustang sprawled across two spaces. Cold sweat breaks over his back.

 _This isn't normal._

He tries calling again, but she doesn't answer. The skin on his left palm tickles, bright little sparks of heat going on and off, on and off like a light switch, steady like a heartbeat. Is it reacting to his, or to the silences between hers?

He needs to find her _now_.

Unwilling to lose any more time, he runs up the stairs to Lisbon's front door.

It's locked.

He doesn't bother knocking – instead takes out his lock-picking kit and opens it as quickly as he can, hands fumbling on the handle and blood pounding in his ears.

"Lisbon?" he calls, as soon as he's inside.

No answer.

No answer, but –

– her badge is on the ground, right below the first step of a staircase.

"Lisbon!" he yells.

Still no answer.

Terror strikes him as he dashes up the stairs, and reaches heightened levels as he darts through a short hallway at the end of which is a single door. A dark brown one, and the door is ajar, and there's no note taped to it, but he finds himself suddenly unable to take a step further – unable to move at all, until dark butterflies dance before his eyes and he realises he stopped breathing as well.

Someone is panting heavily _perhaps behind the door_ – no, those are his own gasps, painful and laboured – and he can't open that door can't look behind can't – _can't_ –

– but –

– but flashes of Angela's smile and Charlotte's curls and their blood spread on bed sheets and his hand still not completely inert and _he can't take the chance to lose the only person who still matters to him_.

With quivering hands, he pushes the door open and peeks inside.

The wall is bare.

But the deep relieved breath he was about to take never makes it to his lungs when he sees the small form curled up on itself, face buried in a pillow under the deep red blanket.

" _Lisbon!_ "

He rushes to her side, pulling off the blanket in one fell swoop – she'll yell at him later, he doesn't care, he just needs to make sure the colour is dye _not blood not blood not blood_ , and she's not moving not answering not – not – _no_ –

His lungs are whistling softly every time he exhales, as if trying to push air through water – and the sound for a moment confounds him because it echoes _twice_ , until he realises the second noise is more like a purr and _isn't coming from him_.

– _she's breathing she's breathing she's breathing thank goodness she's breathing –_

Relief makes him fall to his knees. He crawls up on the bed, reaches out with unsteady arms, and rolls her on her back. She doesn't wake up, but her chest is rising and falling steadily, and his own can finally do the same. Fingers find the pulse on her neck, and it's there – faint, but there, and as steady as her breathing. His entire body is cramping from the stress but he doesn't care because _she's_ _alive alive alive alive alive_ –

A small whimper passes his lips as he curls against her. Fingers on warm skin, straining his ears for every breath she takes, he closes his eyes and focuses on _breathing not weeping just breathing calm calm calm everything is fine she's alive no blood anywhere no smiling face on the wall_ –

A phone ringing brings him back to reality before he can get his heartbeat completely under control.

The call can go to voice mail for all he cares – right now he needs to _think_. Forcing his fingers to let go of her pulse, he pushes himself back into a sitting position, lightly scratches his chin with knuckles that feel like rubber. When the _annoying_ device stops making _annoying_ noises, he takes a short intake of breath, gets up, and clinically examines Lisbon's sleeping form.

 _Why isn't she waking up?_

As far as he can tell, the heat in his palm has abated – the threat to her life is gone. Her lips are rosy, but her cheeks are pale – no carbon monoxide poisoning then, and no respiratory failure as far as he can see.

He still walks to the window and opens it a crack, just in case.

Her skin is warm but not dry, and she isn't sweating – just sleeping. She's fully clothed, blazer over _gun_ over tank top, so that means he didn't interrupt an assault either. No criminal worth their salt would leave a victim with a gun, especially not someone like Lisbon who knows better than most how to use hers.

He frowns, and after a small hesitation, pinches her arm.

She moans, but doesn't wake.

 _Not in a coma._ _Sedated, then.  
_

Mind working in overdrive, he unclasps her holster, puts it on the bedside table in an attempt to make her more comfortable, then pulls the blanket over her again. Starts pacing back and forth before her bed, glancing at her unmoving form every time he turns.

 _She's sleeping. Call EMT? No. Her life isn't in danger – not anymore. And if this is Red John, an ambulance would scare him away._

Pace, turn. Glance. Pace, turn. Glance.

 _I need to be there when he breaks in. I need to be prepared._

Pace, turn. Glance. Picks up the holster, clasps it around his hips. Adjusts the gun to be easily reachable when needed. Glances again. Pace, turn.

 _He must have asked someone else to do it for him, in case something turned wrong. So Red John has a friend in the CBI._

Pace, turn. Frown. Glance. Paces again.

 _Who? Someone close enough to drug her –_

Gasps. Stops.

 _Someone who's been drugging her for_ weeks!

How could he miss something so obvious? It explains _everything_ – the headaches, the moodiness, the tiredness. The lack of energy stretching long after she should have recovered from the shock of the shooting – and worse, the disappearance of her symptoms when she was in Chicago, and their reappearance mere days after her return.

Hindsight is 20/20 – if he lets himself think back on those last few weeks, he'll probably be able to come up with a dozen other things that didn't make sense at the time.

And that means –

– this is _not_ Red John.

Slipping drugs to someone has never been part of his M.O. – on the contrary, he's a sadist who wakes up his victims in order to enjoy their screams. Granted, he's been known to break pattern before, but never _that_ much.

 _Unless –_

He starts pacing again.

 _Unless he was planning to kidnap her. It's the only way that would make sense._

But whoever drugged Lisbon nearly had a whole hour to whisk her away between the moment his palm started heating and the moment he got to her. Besides, why let her get to her own place without harm, if the intent was to do harm in the first place?

 _No, this is someone else. Someone with an entirely different purpose._

But who could have done that – and _why?_

He stops again. Lisbon is resting peacefully, left hand trapped under her cheek – hiding her soulmark from his gaze even in sleep. His lips quirk up, just a little, until his eyes fall on the empty space beside her.

Lying down would be ideal – his best thinking is always done on his couch, head on the armrest at parallel height with his feet. But with an impending adrenaline crash looming over, lying on a soft surface is an invitation to sleep, and he has no intention of playing Goldilocks tonight.

If only because falling asleep beside Mama Bear is a clear invitation to murder, and not from Red John either.

He needs caffeine. Tea. Does Lisbon even _have_ tea?

 _Only one way to find out._

He closes the blinds, making sure no shooter can target her sleeping form from afar – _paranoia is only paranoia if there isn't someone actually trying to get you_ – and after a last lingering glance he walks downstairs, leaving the door ajar.

Somewhere between the hallway and the kitchen, a blanket of surreality falls over his mind. Sounds become muted, sensations just slightly distorted, leaving him with disquiet and the strange feeling of floating through a dream.

If only it was so simple.

A quick search through the cupboards yields what looks like an ancient half-crushed box of chamomile tea – he isn't quite sure, because the cardboard picture is so faded he can't make out the words. But the smell seems right, if a bit dusty.

 _Which of Lisbon's brothers is a tea drinker? Oh, perhaps her niece. She wouldn't be allowed coffee at her age._

Lisbon doesn't seem to have a kettle, but there's a coffee maker beside the microwave. Filling the water tank after washing the coffee basket is a five minutes process, and the boiling water is just starting to fall noisily into the carafe when two small arms slide around his waist from behind.

He yelps.

"Sorry," mutters Lisbon. "Tea?"

"Yeah," he answers, trying to calm his heartbeat. "Didn't hear you come down. You, uh – you're awake?"

"Hm."

That's probably meant to be a 'yes'.

He turns around, holding her body away from his. Her pupils are so dilated he can barely make out the green around them – and she looks frustrated, eyes half-closed, as if aware her mind isn't working as it should but unable to do anything about it.

"Top drawer – no, _shelf_. Top shelf. Up – upstairs. Upstairs," she says, licking her lips.

 _What is she trying to say?_

Then he realises _she_ must be dreaming – and sleepwalking, by the looks of it. _Stress-induced_ , supplies his mind. Or perhaps this is a normal – though _freaky_ – side-effect of the drugs she was given.

 _That would point to some sort of sedative-hypnotic medication like_ – _like Ambien or Klonopin or Ativan or –_

"The," she adds. "The – the cupboard. Upstairs."

"In your room?"

"Yeah – _that_. Tea. My room. Top shelf."

He grins.

"You keep tea in your _bedroom?_ "

She glares – or at least he thinks she's trying to glare. The wide blown pupils and half-shut eyelids look a lot more sultry than it should.

"Earl – sumthin'. Yes. Not _that_ ," she says, brushing the chamomile tea box aside.

It falls on the floor. Neither bother with picking it up.

"New box for – work," she adds. "Go."

She sounds and looks a lot more coherent than a sleepwalking person should – perhaps she really _is_ awake, though still high as a kite. There's something endearing and more than a little funny about Lisbon rising to the sound of her coffee machine being mishandled.

One swift glance around to make sure she'll be safe to leave alone, then he climbs upstairs to find the tea. Two new boxes of Earl Grey are sitting on the top shelf, just like she said, along with a small origami frog – one he recognises with a jolt – and a picture of the team taken at the last Christmas party. He nearly stays around to snoop some more, but a loud crash downstairs quickly puts an end to that idea.

His hand isn't burning. Everything is fine.

"Lisbon? You okay?" he asks, walking into her tiny kitchen area.

"Helicopter's comin'," she answers drowsily. "Gotta use mustard."

He blinks. There's a cooking pot rolling back and forth on the floor, three feet away from the fridge she's half-buried in, presumably retrieving mustard. Chances are it fell when she picked up the pan currently sitting on the stove. On the tabletop near the sink there's already bread, cheese and eggs, ketchup, butter, and also chocolate sauce for some reason.

His stomach hurts just looking at it.

She seems to be making herself some sort of sandwich. Her movements are unnecessarily wide and uncoordinated, but she hasn't stabbed herself yet, and most of the butter is on the bread. Just a small greasy smudge on her wrist. Nothing that shouldn't wash out.

"Want help with that?" he asks, picking up a mug from her cupboard.

"No. Coffee?"

"No, you need to sleep. But I can make you tea."

She groans unhappily, and puts cheese on her bread. Then more cheese. And still more.

"Want some bread with that cheese?" he asks, chuckling.

"Dun' be silly," she answers, slapping the second slice on top of her cheese monstrosity.

Then she turns to the stove, hand fumbling around the control panel, and he suddenly has a very bad feeling about this.

"Uh, how about I cook, huh?" he says, taking a hesitant step toward her.

"No no no, not the chives. Try the – the metallic garblindsoder tessond merlnd – "

 _What?_

He can't help the laugh – the strange, _disconnected_ laugh – bubbling up his throat. Even if the situation isn't really funny, isn't funny at all in fact, the sight and sounds of Lisbon _tripping_ – or sleepwalking, he still isn't sure – coupled to heaps of stress coming down is just _too much_. She turns around at the noise, looks at him impassively for a moment while he tries to keep the hilarity in check – ends up in stitches instead – and giggles.

Actually _giggles_.

And that would be adorable if she wasn't holding mustard in one hand, and what looks like a _small cleaver_ in the other.

The sight sobers him faster than a cold shower.

"O- _kay_ ," he says, carefully peeling her fingers off the sharp blade. "How about we set you on the couch while I cook, huh? What was it supposed to be, a grilled cheese? You certainly had the cheese part down."

"Gricheezz'?" she mumbles. "No. Facktom eyezandround. With – eggs. Want some?"

"Eggs sound good. I'll make them, okay? I'm particular about my eggs."

He smiles, feeling a little strained. Hides the knife in a drawer while she puts the mustard in the dishwasher – and with a forlorn look to the coffee machine happily burping its hot water, leaves his mug and tea bag in the sink. Those small comforts will have to wait until he cuts off her access to sharp objects.

"Come. You need to lie down."

"No – don't want to. Gimmy the cheetah."

"The what?"

"The _cheetah!_ Gimmy the chaerrowintondabliog – "

The end of her sentence is lost in an undistinguishable garble, but her finger is pointing very determinedly at the chocolate sauce. He rolls his eyes, picks up the bottle and puts his arm around her shoulders, steering her away from the kitchen.

"Alright, that's enough. Come on. You'll have your chocolate sauce as soon as you're lying down. Although why you'd want some to begin with is beside me, but if you want to drink it right out of the bottle, be my guest."

She giggles again, leaning heavily against his side – and he'll never be able to bring her up the stairs by himself, so he steers her toward the living room. She sighs when he drops her on the couch, and lets her head fall against the armrest. When he crouches near her, she looks up with a happy expression, all thoughts of chocolate sauce forgotten.

"I'm never letting you forget that, you know," he grins. "Not that I think you'll remember it in the first place."

"Nota remembi wa?"

He gives her head a little pat, then gets back up.

"I'll be right back," he whispers as she closes her eyes again.

Hopefully she'll fall asleep before he comes back.

He allows his gaze to wander a little. The unpacked boxes against the wall, in a corner of the room – did she lack time or inclination? The picture of her brothers on the desk – interesting that she would choose one where they still are teenagers, instead of a more recent one. The Spices Girls CD hidden amidst jazz bands – he's ready to bet sometimes she dances to that one, perhaps as she does household chores.

The eggs she took out earlier are still on the countertop.

One glance back at her – she's sleeping, knees drawn to her chest, one hand under her chin – and he decides not to bother with cooking. _She_ needs to sleep the sedation off, and _he_ isn't hungry. Besides, the lingering smell of eggs would probably make her nauseous in the morning.

He still has no idea who drugged her, nor why, never mind what their end game might be.

A quick trip around the place to close all blinds and make sure all doors are locked, a few more minutes to put the kitchen back in order – _where did she put the mustard again?_ – and he comes back to her side, a steaming mug of Earl Grey in one hand, the other resting on the gun at his hip.

He rubs his face tiredly, then sits.

It's going to be a long night.

* * *

She wakes up at the crack of dawn, disoriented and confused, barely remembering the difference between dreams and reality. The mattress under her body is strangely lumpy, very unlike her own bed – and while the pillow is comfortable, its soft fabric scratches slightly at her cheek.

 _Velvet_ , she thinks.

Who uses velvet pillows, anyway?

The lighting is all wrong – the window should be on the other side. And when she opens her blurry eyes, blinking twice to bring back a little moisture on their dry surface, the first thing she sees is the gun – _her glock!_ – lying across grey cotton-clad thighs, and the man's hand loosely sprawled over it.

She gulps.

The click of her dehydrated throat attracts the man's attention. She can see him shifting left and right, stretching his arms over his head, scratching his hair and nape a few seconds, as if his intrusion in her home was _normal_. And the only thing running through her head is, _I don't think I can get a jump on him in time_.

"Hey," he says, and she nearly sobs aloud when she recognises Jane's voice.

"Oh _God_ , you scared me."

"Sorry, didn't mean to. You okay?"

"Hm. M'fine."

She scrunches her eyes shut again, hides her face in the pillow – _cushion_ , supplies her mind. The couch's cushion. She's on the couch.

 _What the hell?_

Nausea hits her stomach hard as she tries to get herself in an upright position. She stops moving, out of breath, hands clasps in fists on her slightly parted knees, just about ready to throw up. She can hear Jane moving about, but the mere act of _thinking_ makes her woozy – so she stops and concentrates on getting air in, then out, then in again without bile climbing up her oesophagus.

"Here," he says, putting three small tablets and a glass of water under her nose. "Take this. You'll feel better."

"Not sure. Gonna be sick."

"Deep breaths. It'll pass."

She glares – as if she didn't know that already.

"Did – did we _drink?_ " she asks, once the wave of nausea abates. "I can't – "

 _I can't remember anything._

"Drink? No."

Jane sits back in the small sofa facing her, eyes roaming over her with concern. She takes her medicine, then squints in his general direction, trying to see him more clearly.

"Why am I hungover?"

"You were drugged."

"We – we did _drugs?!_ "

The squinting turns into a frown. Jane's chuckle is humourless.

"No. Someone _slipped_ you drugs – probably in your food or drink. You didn't take them on your own."

 _That makes more sense._

Not much, though.

"Who?"

She swallows, pushing down a new wave of sickness.

" _Why?_ "

"I – I don't know," he answers, gaze avoiding hers.

She pauses. Looks up at him, taking in his evasive expression, the remnants of anxiety, and the overly tousled hair from a night spent running his fingers through it. Tries to hang on to annoyance – her morning usual. Tries to push away the confusion and fear.

"You're lying."

"I'm _not_ lying."

"Yes. You are."

 _How do I know that?_

She gets up slowly, every movement clumsy and awkward, as if swimming in molasses – as if _dreaming_. He follows her to the kitchen, nearly hovering, and it reminds her uncomfortably of his attitude immediately following Tanner's shooting.

"You _are_ lying. You've got that – that shifty look in your eyes again. There's something you're not telling me."

"Shifty look? Really, Lisbon? You're calling me _shifty?_ You could use stealthy, at least. Or – or surreptitious. Oh! Oh, what about furtive? I like furtive."

He grins, outwardly amused – but his smile isn't as bright as it usually is. Obviously he's playing for time, trying to distract her. Whatever it is he's holding back, he doesn't want to share.

 _Too bad._

"Jane."

"Hm?"

" _Why have I been drugged?_ "

The smile melts away.

"I told you, I don't know."

"Who drugged me?"

He hesitates.

"You have an idea," she presses. "Who is it?"

He pinches his lips together, bites the inside of his cheek.

"It's just a theory. No proof either way, and even if I'm right, there's no motive that makes sense."

She looks down – he's playing with his wedding ring, turning it over and over on his finger.

"Red John?" she asks, bracing herself for the answer.

"No. Don't think so. Not his M.O., no reason to come after you. Didn't show up here. I don't feel it."

She stares at him, trying to gauge his honesty. But he shrugs, hands open wide, holding her eyes this time, and she decides to believe him – on that point, at least.

It's too early for chronic suspicion anyway, and her head _hurts_.

"Who then?"

"Can we talk about this later? I'd say we both need more caffeine before we have this discussion. And breakfast, if you can have it. I'm starving."

She nods, rubbing her eyes with one hand, refilling her glass at the sink with the other. The water helps clear her mind, at least a little. Enough to make her crave coffee and breakfast. Not enough to dispel the pervasive feeling of treading in a dream.

 _Just_ enough to bring up questions she didn't yet think to ask.

She glances at him, takes a step aside. He's standing just a bit too close for comfort.

"How did you get here?"

"I – used my car? What kind of question is that?"

She rolls her eyes.

"No, I mean – what are you _doing_ here? In my place? Wait, this _is_ my place, right?"

"Of course it is."

"Well?"

He frowns, then looks away – on any other person, she'd call the expression on his face _sheepish_.

"Someone had to watch over you. Just, uh – you know. Just in case something turned – bad."

"How did you know something was wrong in the first place? Did you drive me back from the office?"

"Ah, no. My ha – I, uh – you called me."

She raises an eyebrow, but his features are blank, expressionless.

" ' _My-haiyuh-you called me_ '. Really, Jane? You usually have a better control of your mouth. What's going on?"

"Listen, we talked on the phone. You sounded funny, I got worried, came here. That's it."

He shrugs again, then a glint of mischievousness starts glowing in his eyes.

"Come on Lisbon, don't be so crabby. Just because I know your deep, dark secret now – "

She stares, a twinge of unease spreading fast through her mind.

"What are you talking about? What secret?"

"You sleepwalk when you're high," he grins. "Didn't you know that?"

"What? _I do not!_ "

"You ever been high before?"

"No!"

"Then how would you know?"

"I just _know_ , okay? I _don't_ sleepwalk!"

"Oh yeah, you do. All the way down the stairs, and to the kitchen. You said something about – helicopters I think? Then you made yourself a sandwich. It's in the fridge."

Sure enough, when she opens the door, there's a plate wrapped in plastic with an unreasonable amount of cheese between two slices of bread. She stares, then breaks into a reluctant, terrified smile.

"You're pulling my leg, right? You made that – that _thing_ to prank me. Admit it!"

"No, I swear," he chuckles. "You did it all on your own."

"I don't – I don't remember any of that."

"Probably a side-effect of the drugs."

But she can't even remember _taking_ drugs. And her memories of the day before are so blurry and confused, her head hurts just trying to make sense of all those disconnected pictures and sounds. She tries nonetheless – closes her eyes, then opens them again, all the while her breaths becoming shallower, making her light-headed.

Two fingers touch her elbow, grounding her in reality. For an horrible second, she thinks she's going to _cry_ – then she bites down on her lip _hard_ , and the moment passes. When she looks up, Jane is frowning slightly – again just a tad too close, crowding her, though she isn't even sure he moved.

She shakes her head, takes a step back.

"How come I was lucid enough to do all that, if I can't remember?"

"Well, I wouldn't call you _lucid_ , really. You were out like a light when I arrived."

His throat bobs up and down, something like fear flashing over his features just a fraction of a second – she only recognises it because the same emotion is still building up like a wave inside her.

"You, uh – you got up later, while I was making myself some tea. Sleepwalking, as I said. Or at least drugged out of your mind, not sure which."

"What else did I do?"

He smiles then – a warm, genuine, _affectionate_ thing – and she stays unmoving, nonplussed, as he pulls out two mugs from the cupboard. He starts filling the water compartment of her coffee machine as he talks, way too comfortable and at home in her kitchen.

"You told me where you kept good tea – you were very grumpy about it, too. I'm gonna make some, do you want a cup?"

"Uh, no thanks."

There's something there she should feel embarrassed about, she knows. It's here, right in the teasing lilt of his voice. She can't quite grasp it, but if she could just perhaps _think_ –

"When I came back, you were making that cheese monstrosity," he says, and she's forced to pay attention again. "Then you tried to cook eggs by yourself, and you were starting to wave that big knife around so I brought you to the couch."

She frowns.

"That's it?"

"Uh, no. You asked for chocolate sauce at one point. Called it 'cheetah'," he grins.

" _Cheetah?_ "

"That's when I figured you were really out of it."

"No kidding."

She isn't quite sure if she should be laughing, crying, or getting annoyed with herself – or him. Or whomever slipped her drugs. Or all of those options at once. Her emotions are fleeting, unanchored to reality, and her mind in disarray is still filled with disbelief – everything seems so _odd_ since she woke up.

Not real.

Not happening to her.

"Where do you keep your coffee?" asks Jane, dunking a teabag in a mug of boiling water.

"Uh, second to last shelf in the pantry."

"If I cook some eggs, is it going to make you gag?"

She offers a slight shrug.

"Right now it's just making me hungry."

Her stomach is grumbling already. How long since she last ate?

"Good," he smiles. "Why don't you sit in the living room while I make breakfast? I'll bring you coffee."

"I need a shower," she mutters, rubbing her eyes again. "Mind if I do?"

He makes a tiny sound of surprise – what for, she has no idea – then nods, smile just a tad wider, eyes just a tad brighter than usual.

"Sure. Go ahead."

The trip upstairs takes longer than it should, but at least she manages to stay upright. There's a definite lack of energy as she turns the tap, checks the water temperature, and gets in the tub – every step is an effort, and she has to keep a hand on the wall to prevent a dizzy spell from toppling her over. But the warm water is nothing less than divine, and she stays a long time under the stream as it washes away the remnants of fog in her brain.

Then she finally steps out of this strange dream-like sensation, only to realises _Jane_ is _in her place_ while she's _taking a shower_.

"Everything okay?" he asks, his voice muted by the door between them. "I heard a scream!"

"I'm fine!" she screeches, frantically turning the knobs to cut off water. "Go away!"

"Alright then. Breakfast will be ready in a few!"

She can hear his chuckles receding down the stairs – and she can't remember ever being so mortified in her life. At least she thought to pick up clothes _before_ stepping into the shower.

"Dear _God_. What the _hell_ came over you?" she mutters to herself, trying to rub the water out of her hair.

If she ever had any doubt that Jane was lying about someone drugging her, she doesn't anymore. _No way_ would she ever act like this – leaving Jane alone in her home, and _especially_ leaving Jane alone to _take a shower_ – if her judgement wasn't _impaired_.

" _Seriously_ impaired. Of all the stupid things to do!"

No time to straighten her locks with the hair dryer – as soon as she finds an elastic, she runs down the stairs, ponytail dripping all over her neck. She comes to an abrupt stop when Jane, waiting beside the kitchen entrance, holds a mug of coffee to her face.

"I see you're back to yourself," he says, grinning like the cat who put paws and teeth all over the Thanksgiving turkey.

She grumbles under her breath, but takes the mug – no reason to waste perfectly good coffee, even if she wavers between wishing the ground would swallow her alive, and booting the man out of her place as quickly as possible.

"I made breakfast. Come and sit?"

"No! You can't – "

The wonderful smell of food slithers under her nose. Her stomach groans again.

 _Very_ loudly.

" – I mean – oh, _fine_."

"Excellent! Glad to see you still have your priorities straight."

She glares. He makes a zipper motion over his mouth, then shepherds her toward the kitchen table. The sight of two plates with eggs, bacon and toasts – and nothing else – on the table nearly stuns her into silence.

"Wasn't there – ? Uh, where did you put my – "

"Paperwork? In the living room."

She frowns.

"And where did you find the – "

"Bacon? In your freezer."

Her frown deepens.

"Under the ice sheet," he adds. "Two packs left. Date isn't even last year, it should be fine."

Though she ends up voicing neither, ' _Who gave you the right to go through my freezer?_ ' battles closely inside with ' _What ice sheet? Are you sure you didn't just go out and buy some?_ ', keeping her frowning a few seconds more.

"Stop trying to mess with my mind," she goes for instead.

"What do you mean?"

His teasing tone makes it perfectly obvious he knows she's onto him.

"You keep interrupting me. I know you're doing it on purpose, you always use that trick to confuse suspects. Stop it."

"But if I do, you'll find a reason to yell at me."

"Perhaps I _do_ have a reason to yell at you."

"Yes, you do – you're feeling helpless, and you hate it. Yelling at me wouldn't accomplish much, but at least you'd feel better."

"Of course," she says, rolling her eyes. "That's the only possible reason I could have to yell at you."

"It is, most of the time," he grins. "But if I let you, by the time you're done breakfast will be cold. Don't let your grumpiness get in the way of good eggs, Lisbon. Shall we?"

She sighs, and sits. As much as she wants to argue – for the sake of arguing, perhaps – she'll concede that round.

He's right about one thing, at least. The eggs _are_ good.

 _Bacon's not bad either. Huh._

"So – are you gonna tell me what's going on?" she asks, once the last bite swallowed.

"How about I do the dishes, and – "

" _No_."

Hand falling flat on the table, she stops him from escaping again.

"That's enough deflecting, Jane. This is _my_ life. _I'm_ the one that's been drugged, and you're _damn well_ going to tell me everything you know about this. _Now_."

Holding her gaze, he slowly puts their plates back on the table.

"Alright. Living room?"

"This better not be another distraction."

She picks up the plates, drops them in the sink – when she turns back to him, he hands her a second mug of coffee. She takes it with a grateful nod, then pulls him back to the couch in her living room, plops down, and glares until he sits in the sofa facing her.

It's still early – seven at most. They'll have some time to talk before Minelli expects them in.

 _Good._

They stay silent a few seconds – and she suddenly notices they're in the exact same position they started when she woke up, with the addition of a soft morning sun shining through the window. Which reminds her of something else.

"Wait. Before you start, where did you put my gun?"

He parts one side of his jacket. There it is, tied to his hip. When she makes a hooking gesture – _gimmy!_ – he unclasps it without a word. The heavy weight of steel immediately makes her feel better. She takes a deep breath, savours the relief half a second, then turns her attention to him again.

"I spent all night thinking about this," Jane says, looking down. "And – this is embarrassing, but – "

He hesitates, avoid her eyes. His right thumb scratches the side of his left hand, a very nervous, very uncharacteristic gesture.

" – but the truth is, I have no idea why this was done to you. Nothing I come up with makes any sense. You weren't robbed. You weren't assaulted. Nobody tried to sneak in last night, and nothing was disturbed inside when I came in. Except for – well, you."

"Maybe they saw your car and got scared?"

He shakes his head.

"No. I parked two blocks away, on another street. The only theory I can come up with is that someone wanted to make _really sure_ you stayed at home last night – but it seems like an awful lot of trouble to get such a simple result."

"I usually stay at home on week nights anyway," she frowns. "Did we miss a case?"

"I – I don't know. My phone was closed."

"Where's mine?"

"Upstairs. It didn't ring."

"Was it plugged?"

He shakes his head. Rolling her eyes, she climbs upstairs to fetch it, then comes back with both phone and charger.

"No call missed," she reads aloud, after plugging it in the nearest outlet. "Maybe they _did_ see your car and got spooked."

"Maybe."

He doesn't look convinced. She doesn't blame him – she's not convinced either.

"Who did this?" she asks, sitting back in the couch. "Who slipped me drugs?"

"You don't remember?"

"I can't remember anything."

It's surprising how calm and levelled her voice sounds – she feels so unsteady inside.

"Did, uh – did someone ambush me on my way home?"

Jane bites the inside of his cheek, and perches himself on the edge of his seat. She has to stop herself from drawing her knees to her chest.

"No. I think the drugs came from someone inside the CBI."

She blinks, unable to react, unable say a word – as if an earthquake cracked all roads between her brain and her mouth.

"Someone _inside_ the CBI?" she utters after a moment of terrible silence, trying to keep herself together. "You mean – someone who _works_ there?"

He nods.

"It probably took you about half an hour to get home – and you were here when we talked yesterday, I'm sure of it. You didn't have time to stop, so my guess is someone slipped drugs in something they gave you, food or drink, doesn't matter. Something they knew you would take, no questions asked. Something like – "

Their eyes both fall on the steaming mug in her hand.

" – coffee," they say at the same time.

"That would make sense," he adds. "You drink so much of it."

She places the cup on the side table.

"Hey. That one's safe, I promise."

"I know. Still."

They stay silent a few seconds.

"What's the last thing you remember from yesterday?" he asks.

"I don't – "

"Quick, don't think. First thing that comes to mind."

"Desecrating a body to get a confession."

He raises his eyebrows.

"No, wait – I'd never use that expression. Someone _told me_ I did that. Minelli?"

"Uh, no. I was there – Minelli said 'abused', not 'desecrated'."

She frowns, turning the words in her mind, again and again without coming closer to an answer. Jane reclines in his seat, watching her carefully.

"Who would say something like that?" she mutters. "Did I hear people gossiping again?"

Then she opens her eyes wide.

"Wait a minute. Gossiping – that's right! _Bosco_ told me that. We had this huge f – uh, yeah. Early afternoon I think."

"That's the last thing you remember? Fighting with Bosco?"

"You know about the fight?"

"Everybody knows about the fight," he answers, eyes shifting to the side. "No memory after that?"

"I don't think so. But Bosco wouldn't drug me," she laughs.

"How can you be so sure?"

She stares – Jane stares back, neither expression nor body language betraying his thoughts.

"You don't seriously think Bosco would slip me drugs? That's – _no_. No way."

"No?"

"No," she says firmly. "We've known each other a long time. He's an ass sometimes, but he'd never harm me. It _has_ to be someone else."

He nods.

"Alright. To be fair, Bosco _probably_ didn't do it. But you two did have a fight. Until you remember or we find proof, everyone's a suspect."

"But some more than others, right? You said you had a theory earlier – told me to wait. Well I waited, and it's after breakfast now. Shoot."

The gaze he levels on her is uncharacteristically serious. Still, he doesn't say a word.

" _Tell me!_ "

"Your shrink."

She snorts.

"Jane, come on. Isn't that pushing your fear of doctors a bit far?"

"I'm _not_ afraid of doctors. And I'm perfectly serious."

"Dr. Carmen is a licensed psychiatrist who's been employed by the CBI for _at least_ three years."

"He's also a quack with access to prescription drugs."

"If he was in the habit of slipping drugs to his patients, don't you think someone would have noticed by now?"

"Not if it's the first time he's doing it."

"I've lost count of the number of times I had to see him already! Why didn't he drug me when I shot Dan Hollenbeck, or – or that _wacky_ soulmate couple in Napa last year? Why would he drug me _now?_ "

"Well, that's the question, isn't it? Come on, Lisbon, _think_. Even without taking into account how he made you come back week after week with feeble excuses not to sign off on you – how many times did you come back from his office feeling terrible? The headaches, the nausea, the sleepiness you can't shake off, no matter how much coffee you drink that day? Didn't you feeling unwell start right after Tanner, and didn't you feel better when you went to Chicago, only to relapse once you came back?"

She hates how _reasonable_ it sounds, because the idea of a respectable psychiatrist passing the screening to work in law enforcement, then spending three years doing some good work just to end up slipping drugs in her coffee shouldn't make sense, no matter how one looks at it. But there's nothing in Jane's rhetoric she can easily discount – so she rubs her knuckles against her forehead for a moment, then looks at him again, feeling stricken.

"But _why_ would he do that to me?"

"I don't know."

"Jane, are you _sure_ about this? I didn't even see him yesterday. Couldn't it be someone else?"

"It could be someone else. Are you sure you didn't see him?"

"I have an appointment with him, uh – Friday I think? Later in the week, anyway. I definitely didn't have one yesterday."

"Hmm."

He lightly chews on his bottom lip, and she finds herself unconsciously mimicking him.

"We'll have to wait until you remember to be sure."

" _Can_ I remember? I mean – is it possible?"

"Hard to say – depends on what he gave you. You could remember on your own, or the memory could be lost forever, or – "

He hesitates.

"Or what?"

"Or I could hypnotise you to help you remember – if the memory's there, we can get it back. I could put you into a light trance – "

"No. No way," she says, jumping out of her seat.

"Lisbon, listen to me. I'm not gonna hurt you. You just need to relax."

"Like _that's_ going to happen! Stop trying to hypnotise me."

"There's nothing to be afraid of."

"I'm not afraid!"

"Then let me hypnotise you so we know for sure who did this to you."

"No," she says, turning away – and biting her lip again as soon as he doesn't see her face anymore.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want you inside my head."

 _You're there enough already._

In another setting, she would walk away as fast as possible – but escaping him in her own apartment is a bit tricky. Showing him out would be an easy solution, but it seems pointless when he'll just wait to _hound_ her at work in – she checks her watch – less than an hour anyway.

So she turns her back on him, and walks to the kitchen with the intention of cleaning up. Their plates and cutlery are still piled up in the sink, along with the skillet he used to fry their eggs and bacon. Perfect. She won't have to find another activity to settle her nerves – and _cleaning_ is a little less obvious than _straightening_.

She absorbs herself in the practised motion of washing, scrubbing, rinsing one plate after the other, then the skillet, then the cutlery – and she's drying the last fork, taking as much time as humanly possible, when she suddenly remembers about her dishwasher.

More specifically, the whole dishwasher worth of dirty plates she can wash by hand to delay confrontation with Jane.

 _Don't be stupid._

Alright, maybe not. It's getting late anyway, they'll have to hit the road soon. But if she could just –

"Hey," he says, right behind her. "What are you planning to do about this, then?"

She jumps, then takes a deep breath.

"What do you mean?"

"You can't investigate anyone. You don't have proof."

She chews on the inside of her cheek.

 _He's right. Damnit._

"I could find proof. There must be something – there's _always_ something to find."

"You could. How do you expect to go about it?"

She hums while washing the sink, then her hands – keeping busy while she thinks about it. No judge will sign a warrant to search Carmen's office – or anyone's office – without due cause. Suspicion isn't enough. Maybe if she tried to act normal around him, make him talk. Or maybe it isn't him at all. Maybe it's someone else, someone with ties to Red John. Someone they can trick into a confession. Maybe –

 _Isn't that a very Jane way to go about this?_

"What about a tox screen?" he asks, hip leaning on the countertop.

She raises her eyebrows. Did they switch their minds last night without her noticing?

"It could be a long shot," he adds. "Most prescription drugs are metabolised in 12 to 18 hours, so a blood test may not reveal anything."

"You said whoever did this has been drugging me for a long time, right?"

"At least a month. Probably more."

"Then it doesn't have to be blood, they could test my hair. Most prescriptions drugs – _all_ drugs, and steroids too for that matter – can be traced that way for up to 90 days, especially with long-term use. That's why so many addicts shave their head. If I request them to send the samples to a testing facility the CBI uses, then perhaps – hmm. I was scheduled for some tests soon anyway, I could – let me just – where's my bag?"

"Must have left it in your car yesterday. Anyway, Lisbon – "

He taps his thumb against his bottom lip, a pensive gesture she's getting very familiar with.

"How long until you get your tox screen results back, about two weeks? We should probably keep quiet about this, at least until then."

No matter the fact it echoes her own thoughts, she crosses her arms on her chest, waiting to be convinced. Because this is how it works between them, and she desperately needs this small amount of control. This small amount of _normal_.

"And why would I do that?"

Jane flashes her a knowing smile, then becomes serious again.

"Because we still don't know _why_ you were drugged."

"And how _not_ coming clean about it will get us answers?"

"If I hadn't been here last night, what would you have done? Concealed it, right? You thought we were drinking when you woke up."

She winces, then nods.

"You had a sleepwalking episode, so you would have found displaced objects, unexplainable traces of activity downstairs. With your history, the logical assumption – "

"You mean he _wanted_ me to think I had a black-out?" she interrupts, nauseous. "That's – that's _sick_."

"Well, we don't know his endgame. But – yes. Probably. It's interesting, isn't it?"

 _Interesting?_

She debates for a moment the wisdom of asking _what_ exactly in this situation deserves to be called interesting. Is it puzzling out why someone – _her therapist_ , whispers her mind – decided to trap her in her worst nightmare, or the fact that this person knew her well enough to engineer it in the first place? But then he glances her way, and probably catches the dismay in her expression because he steps closer, a faint trace of apology on his face.

"Oh, Lisbon. Hey," he says, touching two fingers to her shoulder. "It's going to be okay. It's going to be fine, alright? I promise."

Only then does she realises her eyes are full of unshed tears – which she wipes quickly, embarrassment battling with anger inside her. But anger is good. Anger is _safe_ – perfect to drown all those other conflicted feelings.

"Whoever did this, I want them _nailed_ ," she says, voice cracking.

"He will be. For now we lie low. Then we'll catch him red-handed, and I'll trick him into a full confession. Alright?"

" _I_ want to nail the _bastard_. Not you. _Me_."

"You will."

"You'll show me? How to trick him?"

"As soon as we know what he's up to."

"Okay," she says, sniffling.

"Okay," he echoes, his hand running up and down on her arm twice before letting go.

She should probably thank him for being there all night, and for figuring out what happened to her – she can't imagine waking up on her own, mind and mouth fuzzy, with no memory of the night before. But there's been enough display of emotion this morning. If she adds gratitude to that plate, it'll become platitude and she'll turn into mush.

It'll still be time to thank him later, when Carmen – when _the person responsible_ is behind bars.

"You should leave," she says. "So we don't show up at work together."

"Hmm. Yes. The rumour mill doesn't need more water, does it?"

" _Ha-ha_. Get out of here."

"Yes ma'am," he grins. "How soon will you follow?"

"I'll stop at the lab first, ask Pat for a tox screen. She'll know to keep it quiet until we come up with something."

He nods.

"Don't forget to act normal around your shrink next time you see him."

"I _know_ , Jane. Stop hovering."

He chuckles, then walks to the door.

"See you later, Lisbon. Don't forget to start the washing cycle for those remaining dishes."

 _What?_

He waits a few seconds on the doorstep, rocking on his feet – looking way too pleased with himself. Frowning, she grabs the handle and pulls. Then stares.

"Why is there mustard in my dishwasher?"

The noise Jane makes as he closes the door sounds very much like a laugh.

* * *

 **Next chapter officially starts the Red Badge interlude, and will come when it's ready.**

I know updates are infrequent. But English is not my first language, and all of my chapters are between 9 and 15k words. I won't bore you with my writing process and the number of editing rounds a chapter goes through before publication – just know that I care about the quality of my stories, and getting there takes time.

So please don't send me anonymous (or signed!) reviews asking me to update quickly. It won't make me write faster – it'll just make me stressed. And stress gives me writer's block, so I'm sure you can see how that's a bad idea.

Thank you for your respect and understanding. See you on the next one.


	11. Interlude: Red Badge I

_**Disclaimer: As you probably guessed by now, this show and its characters aren't mine.**_

 **A/N:** As of this chapter, Kindred is officially the longest story I've ever written. Thank you so _so_ much for helping this happen. You're an amazing bunch and I'm so very grateful to all of you.

(On a completely unrelated note, Mayzee managed to evaluate the length of this chapters better than I did. Kudos to you!)

 **Warnings:** Canon parental denial of the M.O. of a paedophile character, vague mention of themes related to suicide, mild symptoms of drugs withdrawal. Jane also accidentally messes with Lisbon's mind, which causes slight paranoia. If this triggers you, please stay safe.

 **Spoilers:** Some dialogues are taken directly from 2.03 "Red Badge".

* * *

 **Kindred**  
 **Interlude: Red Badge I**

The answers start coming two days later.

The small alley Cho is leading them to is grimy, dusty, and littered with trash, with the sickly sweet smell of sun-roasted garbage permeating the air, and _disgusting_ might be the only possible word to describe it. None of them would be caught dead in this place if they could avoid it, and their steps are perhaps a little less springy than usual as they walk between the tall buildings, shuddering despite the heat.

It amuses him a little, considering the reason they were called here in the first place.

Van Pelt, ahead already, is taking point with SacPD.

No body in sight.

He walks behind the group, only part of his attention on his surroundings – the rest of it is solely focussed on Lisbon, who's already asking about the case. It's an habit now, he reflects. Wake up. Eat breakfast. Worry about Lisbon. Make sure the twinges in his hand are muscle-related. Tease his team mates. Nap on a couch – his, or Lisbon's. Worry some more. A dreadful little routine he's eager to put a stop to, but won't dare discard until they know why she was drugged.

After giving her orders she walks to one side, barely giving a cursory look around. He follows. She's compulsively rocking on her feet, clenching her fists in her pockets, chewing on the inside of her cheeks – all warning signs to keep quiet and leave her alone. But under the annoyance he reads anxiousness and frustration, mental strain and hints of –

– _fear?_

Good thing he usually ignores rules that don't suit him.

"Shrink day, huh?"

"No," she answers, avoiding his gaze.

He rolls his eyes. The lie is so easy to spot.

"Yes. _Yes_. You have the line between your eyebrows. He annoys – no. He _scares_ you, and that's why you're annoyed."

"I'm not _scared_."

"Of course you are. And besides, you smell a little – of his cigar smoke."

She glowers at him, then averts her eyes again.

" _I am not scared_ , Jane."

"And why not? The man drugged you for weeks. Would make anyone uneasy."

The disgruntled expression on her face deepens, and she glances around. He does the same. Nobody close enough to hear their conversation – but there's a line of ants running on the wall behind them.

 _Well, would you look at that._

"You don't know he's the one who did that. _Cho, anything?_ "

He gives her a look. She makes an unhappy noise, and keeps glaring ahead in an obvious attempt to prevent him from prying further. He ignores her unhelpful attitude, steps closer.

"Did you get a read on him?" he asks quietly.

"Yes. I don't think he did it."

"You don't think so, or you don't want him to?"

She glares again. He shrugs it off – by now it's becoming routine.

"He acted perfectly normal, didn't seem stressed at all, even when I mentioned taking a tox screen. And I've been in interrogation rooms for over ten years now. That's not how a culprit acts."

"Well, of course not. He must have rehearsed this a thousand times before meeting with you. If he wasn't confident he could keep his composure, he would have cancelled."

"Wish he did," she mutters, barely audible. "Jane, can you stop? We shouldn't be talking about this in the open."

"Hmm."

 _Well, she's not wrong. Not about that, at least._

She raises an eyebrow, challenging – a bait he would gleefully take on any other occasion.

Not today.

No, today he lives to be unpredictable.

"Did you know that if you weighted every living thing on planet Earth, a quarter of that biomass would be just ants?"

She raises her other eyebrow, surprised and grateful. He grins.

"That's a lot of ants. _Cho, anything?_ "

"No sign of a body," says Cho, answering from the other side of the alley.

"Alright then, look in the dumpsters. Let's get out of here."

Their team members are arguing softly in the distance, and he could spend _hours_ waiting to see how much time it'll take them to figure it out. Cho dumpster diving is just bonus – he still hasn't quite figured out how to repay him for his little manipulation attempts last month.

On the other hand it's a hot day, the smell of trash is a little too far-reaching for his tastes, and the whole alley lacks atmosphere – they could all do with a change of scenery. And if he plans to grill their fearless leader for information about her meeting with the shrink, better make her comfortable first.

He _can_ wait until Cho jumps knee deep in the garbage container though, can he? After all, revenge is revenge, and even _petty_ revenge tastes sweet.

"It's been pretty dry weather this fall," he starts offhandedly.

"Like tinder – _wait_."

She glares.

" _Jane_. Who in their right mind would say August is _fall?_ "

He chuckles.

"Meh. I'm sure it's fall _somewhere_. In Siberia perhaps."

She rolls her eyes.

"Well in the meantime, _here in California_ , it's still summer and we have a case."

"Only if we find the body."

"Do you have a point, or is this like last week, when you went on and on about sea ravens for _days_ before finally telling us the killer worked on a fishing boat?"

He grins.

"How could I resist? Sea ravens are extraordinary, Lisbon, you should know that by now. But I did have a point, actually," he says, pointing to the line of ants behind them. "See this?"

"Ants."

"Yes. This dry weather we're having? That's why those ants are looking for moisture wherever they can find it."

"Then – why aren't all the ants in the wet, sticky dumpsters?" she frowns, and he so _loves_ seeing the exact moment she catches on.

"Exactly," he grins. "Because they've found _somewhere else_ where there's a little more m – "

The closer they get to the rusted door, the stronger the decomposition smell.

" – _uuuh_. Rigsby? Little help here!"

"Oh _please_ ," says Lisbon, rolling her eyes again.

She looks amused as she pulls the metal handle, but that smile slides off as the body of a man rolls out of the small cavity. They exchange a glance before her eyes return to roaming over the face of the dead man on the ground, and –

– and _this is it_.

 _This_ is what they were waiting for.

"Looks like three to the chest point blank," says Rigsby.

"Perfect triangle formation," adds Van Pelt, and he zones them out to concentrate on Lisbon, whose expression shows hints of so many fleeting emotions he has trouble keeping up.

Then she glances up again, catches his gaze, and his first impression is confirmed once more. She knows just as well as he does.

 _This is it._

"Who is he?" he asks, making use of a lull in the conversation around them.

"Name's William McTier, from San Francisco. Serial child rapist, served six years at Pelican Bay."

"And you know this how?"

"I'm the one who sent him there."

He would like nothing more than to take her aside and talk about this, discuss what it means, what are their options – _do_ something, _anything_. But this isn't the place. This isn't the time. There's a crime scene to process, nosy team members around them, and even a few SacPD officers loitering further down the alley. So he stays by her side until they're safely back at headquarters, waits until the team is engrossed in old newspapers, and slinks unseen from the bullpen to her office, closing the door behind him.

She sits at her desk, hand frozen halfway between the neck she was just rubbing and the paperwork she was getting back to, glowering because she knows she won't escape him this time – but still not asking him to leave. He smiles to himself.

"Did they confirm time of death?" she asks, leaning back.

"Yes, they did. Tuesday night, between eleven and two. Does that surprise you?"

She chews on her lip briefly, then frowns and crosses her arms on her chest.

"Murder weapon?"

"In a bin, two blocks away."

"Prints?"

"They're checking now. How much do you wanna bet they'll find yours?"

She startles, eyes widened in fright. Obviously she didn't expect him to be so blunt.

"You think someone is framing me."

"No."

"No?"

"I don't _think_ someone is framing you. I _know_ your _shrink_ is framing you."

She rolls her eyes.

"We've already been through this."

"Yes, we have. He had means and opportunity – "

" – but he has no motive, and I didn't even see him on Tuesday afternoon."

"You don't remember _anything_ from Tuesday afternoon," he points out.

She stops looking at him, left hand balled in a fist, right one tapping her pen on a stack of paperwork – her way of tuning him out. He rolls his eyes, walks to her couch, and sits – then waits a few minutes, watching her get back to her forms.

"Would you feel better if we took pre-emptive measures?"

She carefully places her pen across her report.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, we could get the proper authorities involved right now. Explain what happened to Minelli, show him the results of your tox screen. Get proof – "

"Proof! _How?_ We don't even know who did it!"

"We _do_ know who."

"No, we _don't_. And we don't have proof someone drugged me either. The tox screen only shows I had Lorazepam in my system that night, not how it got there. If you're right and it's my prints on that murder weapon, how do you think it's gonna look like?"

"Nobody's gonna believe you're an addict, Lisbon! Come on."

"If the choice is between me getting addicted to anti-anxiety medication after nearly being killed, or someone in the CBI slipping me sedatives for _weeks_ without me being aware, nor without any proof to back up my claims, do you really think they're gonna believe I didn't notice someone was spiking my coffee? Hell, I don't even know how _I_ could miss that!"

It pains him to admit she has a point, and not a small one either.

"Besides, my car was low on gas Tuesday morning, but the tank was full yesterday," she mutters. "For all we know, someone could have given me the drugs when I stopped at the gas station."

"Don't be childish, you know that's impossible. I spent half an hour trying to call you back after you hung up on me, you never answered. For the drugs to knock you out so quickly after we talked on the phone, it _had_ to be someone here."

She bites her lip, averts her eyes.

"Didn't you say it could be anyone?" she asks.

"Well, _yes_. But – "

"Then why don't you keep an open mind about this? Why are you so focussed on my shrink?"

He gets back up, pulls a chair, and leans over her desk as he sits, hands so close to hers he can feel how cold they are. She stays silent, picking up her pen again, rolling it between thumb and fingers.

"Listen. I understand you not wanting to believe someone inside the CBI got to you," he says. "But I thought you'd be glad to have Dr. Carmen as a suspect."

"Well you thought wrong. The man passed every screening the CBI threw at him and came off golden. He has access to all of our personal files, for God's sake! If he turns out to be _crooked_ – "

"I know. He's in the perfect position to make you feel vulnerable."

" _I'm not feeling vulnerable!_ I'm just – I'm just _angry_ that – "

The cap on her pen pops off, interrupting whatever bogus explanation she was trying to come up with. He watches as she glowers, puts down the pen again, and turns her glare on him.

" _Anyway_. Why would I _ever_ be glad about that?"

He pauses, making sure he has her attention.

"Because if Carmen didn't do it, then the most likely suspect is Bosco."

* * *

She tries to throw him out – she really does. But of course he pays her no heed, and has Cho call her out of her office nearly as soon as she manages to get rid of him. She finds herself facing him in the conference room fifteen minutes later, a table and four cups between them, without really knowing how he roped her into this.

"Did you put a bill under one of the mugs?" he asks, eyes still closed.

" _Yes_ ," she answers, rolling her eyes.

"Close your eyes."

She does, then sighs impatiently.

"Jane, we have a case. You think I have time for games?"

"Life is a game, you have plenty of time for that. Shh."

Truth be told, she enjoys the distraction. The alternative – ruminating alone in her office, with her thoughts wandering in directions she has no desire to even consider – is less than savoury.

Not that she'll ever admit _that_ out loud.

"I want you to take a deep breath in – "

 _Is he trying to hypnotise me?_

" – and out. Will you concentrate?"

She nods, frowning lightly, trying her best to concentrate as he told her – but not on his voice, not on her own thoughts. She focuses on the hard chair under her body, on the carpeted floor slightly yielding under her shoes, on the soft, buttery leather wrapped over her shoulders.

Just in case.

And still, Jane's next words barely reaches her conscious mind, jolting her back to reality.

"Name as many 20th century presidents as you can – now."

"Uh – Coolidge, Wilson, Roosevelt, Eisenhower, Truman, Kennedy, Nixon, LBJ – "

"Good. Take another breath in – "

Suspicious now, she does so impatiently, trying to crush the unease creeping in her brain. Any other day, she would have easily allowed Jane to distract her – it probably even would have worked. He would have made her smile with his antics, she would have taken pleasure in telling him off. And he would have pretended to listen to her rant, nodding along, unable to completely hide the smug grin pulling at the corner of his lips – because such is the dynamics between them, such is the way they understand each other best.

But not today.

Not with McTier's body downstairs in the morgue. Not with the results of her tox screen downstairs in Pat's archives, not with the random blank patches plaguing her memory of Tuesday afternoon. And not with the many thoughts swirling in her mind, most of them making themselves heard in Jane's voice.

 _Someone slipped you drugs._

 _I have no idea why this was done to you._

 _You can't investigate anyone. You don't have proof._

 _Your shrink is framing you._

 _If Carmen didn't do it, then the most likely suspect –_

She scrunches her eyes as hard as she can, shaking her head.

 _Stop it!_

"Lisbon?"

A warm hand touches her wrist and she jumps, toppling the mug closest to her, blinking owlishly for a second before remembering where she is, what is happening. Then she stares at the twenty dollar bill uncovered before her.

"Uh, sorry," she says. "I messed up your trick."

She bites her lip, keeping her eyes away from his. The lamp overhead shines a blinding glint on the metallic table.

"Doesn't matter," answers Jane flippantly. "The trick was just a trick. Our minds are in sync' now, that's the important part."

Taken aback, she glances up – and he grins smugly, firmly catching her eyes after what feels like _hours_ trying to avoid his. He's reading her again, and she hates how naked and vulnerable it makes her feel. Her left hand tightens on itself reflexively, and when his fingers brush against her wrist again, she breaks their stare and gets up, intent on going back to her office.

He sighs.

"You know, you're really making this difficult today," he whines before she has time to push the door open.

"Difficult? _Me_ , difficult?"

He yawns and gets up, stretching his arms over his head.

"Well, yes. It's not like you to jump like that. You're much too tense."

"Can you blame me? You sounded like you were trying to hypnotise me!"

"I _wasn't_ trying to hypnotise you. Just helping you relax. You're a very suspicious woman, did you know that? So distrustful. _Leery_."

His smile and flippant voice takes the bite out of his words. She rolls her eyes, pushing down on the hysterical laugh trying to bubble up her throat.

"Considering what happened Tuesday, don't you think I have a _right_ – "

The triumphant glint of teeth in his usual grin disappears faster than a toupee on a windy day, but she bites her tongue just the same.

 _Crap. Too late._

"I thought you didn't want to talk about it?" he inquires, laughter merrily dancing in the undertones of his voice.

" _Funny_."

"You know, it would be much easier if you stopped trying to avoid the subject."

"Easier for _whom_ exactly?"

"Well, for me of course. But also for you. Don't you think we should start thinking of a plan?" he answers, lightly touching her elbow.

She snatches it out of range, crossing her arms on her chest. It's a defensive gesture, she's painfully aware of it, but better appear prickly than scared or _whatever else_ he manages to read off her.

"A plan means involving the team."

"Not necessarily."

"Involving everyone is the _meaning_ of a team, Jane."

He shrugs.

"But you _don't_ want them involved," he says. "They don't need to know anything, at least not right away."

She bites her lip again, leans on the door frame, watching over the team – _her_ team. _Her_ people in the bullpen, crowded around Van Pelt's computer – and the only thing she can think of is that she doesn't want them to know what happened. She doesn't want them to know about how _stupid_ she was, letting someone drug her for weeks without ever questioning her symptoms.

The raw honesty of her thoughts scratch at her throat, reminding her why she usually avoids voicing them.

"They will know eventually, though," adds Jane quietly, coming behind her. "So why not now?"

"I'd rather not – I mean, they don't need to at all."

"You do know that everything will come out when your case gets to court, right?"

"Of course I know! I just – _urgh_. Where do you get off pushing me to be honest, anyway? Isn't that a bit hypocritical of you?"

He chuckles.

"Well, _I'm_ not supposed to be the paragon of virtue here."

"As if I was!"

"But you are, aren't you? _Saint Teresa?_ "

She blinks, looks over her shoulder. He rocks on his feet, looking incredibly self-satisfied.

"How come you never told me how you met Agent Bosco?" he adds, grinning.

"You looked me up," she says, blinking again.

"Of course not. Our minds are in sync', remember?"

She rolls her eyes, ignores his comment. Then peers into the bullpen again, and feels like banging her head against the desk.

"You told _the team_ to look me up! That's why they're all over Van Pelt's desk. _Damn it_ , Jane."

He chuckles again, then give a light push at the small of her back. The pressure is barely perceptible, just enough to set her in motion – but the heat from his fingers stays ghosting on her skin a whole minutes, even through three layers of clothing.

She shivers.

The team, of course, wants to know everything about McTier. Trying to redirect their attention is useless. Van Pelt is still reading the damn articles aloud, and since there's a lull in the case because they're waiting for the lab results, it seems nearly logical – though _annoying_ – that they settled on the next best thing.

" 'Inspector Lisbon's actions were lauded as heroic by city officials and her SFPD colleagues,' said her supervisor – _Lieutenant Samuel Bosco?!_ " reads Van Pelt, eyes widening by the end of the sentence.

" 'Inspector Lisbon did an exemplary job tracking down and arresting this animal,' " adds Jane, mimicking Sam's voice.

"Well, that's pretty good. You should get an act together. Can you do Barbara Streisand?" says Sam himself, leaning against the glass partition.

 _If Carmen didn't do it, then –_

"Don't tempt me," answers Jane, and she shakes herself, pushes the thought away.

"So, I heard about McTier."

"Weird, huh?" she says. "Here we are, after how many years?"

"Too many."

Sam makes himself helpful, gives her a few impressions and pointers, all the while watching her like a hawk – or so it seems from her point of view. She shifts on her feet, uncomfortable with the intensity of his gaze. It's one thing to get it from Jane, she's used to it by now, but Sam is another animal entirely.

"Let me know if you need any help," he says. "For old times sake," he adds pointedly, giving her a last once-over before turning heels.

"For old times sake," repeats Jane _sotto voce_ behind her.

 _If Carmen didn't do it –_

She shivers before catching herself, stomping on her uneasy thoughts again, and gives her orders to the team.

 _Sam is not the culprit. I refuse to believe that._

* * *

He lets out a deeply relieved breath as the door slams shut on the grieving, oblivious, _foolish_ woman and her ten years old daughter. Grace is twitching all over, as if covered in ants – which would be amusing if he didn't share the feeling – and stays silent until they reach the car. Then she rubs her face with both hands instead of unlocking the doors.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

He knows the answer, of course, but still hopes that talking will set her into motion – he has no desire to stay in that parking lot longer than necessary.

"Yeah," finally says Grace, taking the driver's seat.

The silence as they drive back is uneasy. He chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment, looking out the window as the streets pass by. She spends about as much time glancing over to him than she does staring at the road, and he wonders when she'll ask that question dancing on the tip of her tongue, or if she ever will.

He would feel better if she didn't – that way he wouldn't have to come up with an answer.

"Food?" she asks after a while.

"No," he says, shaking his head. "Not really hungry. Just said that to get out of there."

"Yeah, I get it."

Her smile is strained.

"Jane, do you think – " she starts, then stops, bites her lip.

He waits.

"Do you think she'll keep her child safe from now on?"

And there it is.

"I have no idea. Hopefully. There's no way to tell."

"God, I really hope so. It makes me so mad! What was she _thinking?_ "

"She wasn't."

"What do you mean?"

He nearly shrugs, then stops himself. Perhaps Grace deserves a true answer, instead of his usual flippant, callous observations. And perhaps he should be bothered to give it to her.

It's not like there's anything else to do right now, anyway.

"You've seen her. She was neglected as a kid," he explains. "The pain of being constantly ignored, denied, and belittled forged her personality. As a result, she'll always put the needs of her daughter before hers because she's determined never to repeat her parent's mistakes. But on the other hand she's still craving that attention for herself, so she'll get it wherever she finds it. It's a primal need, and McTier filled it just enough that she ignored the warning signs."

"But – how can someone overlook the warning of a _conviction record?_ "

Her face is twisted in disgust and disbelief, a faint undercurrent of anger in her frowning eyebrow, in the downward slant of her mouth.

"People are driven by hurt, Grace. Enough hurt, and you move a good pace. Too much hurt and it makes you blind. You rush forward like a bull in the arena, and you don't care how many china stores you cross on your path – you run them all down. Until a wake-up call forces you to open your eyes, see how your unhealthy patterns are endangering your life."

The click of his throat when he swallows seems unnecessary loud.

"Most people need to live the consequences – _really_ live them, not just hear about what could happen – before they agree to make some changes. And sometimes, even if they hit the wall full force, it's not enough. Some people never learn, and keep rushing forward until they kill themselves with recklessness. Or people they love."

And the way she looks at him, so full of compassion and sadness and _pity_ , proves she completely missed his point. Time to redirect her attention elsewhere.

"Take you, for example," he adds.

She blinks.

"Me?"

"I don't know what happened to you. I mean, I could _guess_ , but – "

" _Nothing_ happened to me."

"Of course something happened to you," he says, his pointed look lost when she refuses to meet his eyes. "You're driven by a burning need to protect the innocent, and when that fails, to seek justice for the victims. It makes you hate all perpetrators, especially those who go after women and children. It also makes you dedicated to your job, keenly aware of injustice, and a hard worker, something everyone working with you notices and respects."

"What's the catch?" asks Grace, frowning.

He smiles joylessly.

"The catch is that you instinctively trust anyone giving off 'good guy vibes'," he says, deliberately exaggerating his air quotes. "Women. Children. Men who act with kindness toward you. Then if we add to that a natural attraction to bad boys and a nurturing desire to redeem them, it leads to what happened with – "

"Alright, _alright_. I get it."

"Do you? Was Hollenbeck enough of a wake-up call to break your own unhealthy patterns?"

She clenches her teeth, keeps staring ahead without giving an answer. After a while he does the same, satisfied that she isn't thinking about him anymore – or at least, that she thinks of him as a jerk rather than as a victim, which suits him perfectly.

His wife and daughter were victims.

Not _him_.

The sun is high and hot when Grace stops the SUV in the parking lot. He takes a moment to soak in sunlight, head tilted backwards and arms extended, trying to wash away all remnants of metaphorical grime. A muffled groan beside him makes him blink, then frown.

"Grace?"

"I'm fine," she says shortly, rubbing the inside of her left hand.

She looks like she's about to cry.

"You're not fine. What's wrong?"

" _Nothing_."

Still angry with him, then.

"Listen, I'm sorry for earlier," he sighs.

She glances at him, presses her lips together, then lets her shoulders fall.

 _So easy._

"It's just – you know. The name. It's acting up again."

He nods. This is something he _does_ know – all too well, and wishes he didn't.

"I'm sorry," he offers. "Does it happen often?"

"A lot more often than it used to. I don't know why, it's like – "

She interrupts herself, frowns, then slams the door shut and walks to the building's main entrance. He follows – it's obvious she's trying to work out something, trying to find the words, and he's content to wait for it as they get in and past security.

"There's a low heat these days," she finally says after calling the elevator. "It's always there. Sometimes it stings, like it did just now. Sometimes it's barely a tickle. It never stops, I don't know why. Maybe Cho was right. Maybe he's in a war zone. I just hope he's not – "

She bites her lip. _Suicidal_ , is what she doesn't say – what he reads on her face anyway. Then she shrugs, maybe reading his own expression for once.

"That's okay," she smiles. "I guess it means he's not that guy I was hoping for, right?"

"Oh? Why is that?"

"Well I – I follow him a bit on Soulbook, you know?"

He nods. He has no idea what she's talking about.

"So I read he got this huge promotion recently. Apparently he's a hero. There was an attempted bombing in the subways a few weeks ago. He saved twelve people, got everyone out without a scratch _and_ caught the terrorists. So right now he's in DC – to get a commendation I think? Something like that. Then he'll be promoted. He has every reason to be very happy, and DC isn't a war area."

"Unless you're talking about politics," he quips.

She rolls her eyes, but smiles reluctantly.

" _Anyway_. He didn't disclose the name of his soulmate in his profile so I kept hoping, but now – well."

Grace clenches her left hand and hides it from his sight, a gesture he's intimately familiar with – but not from _her_.

"Is that why you're keeping away from Rigsby?" he asks on a whim.

"I'm not _keeping away_ from Rigsby."

"Then why don't you give him a shot?"

"We're colleagues, it's against the rules. Besides, it's none of your business."

He cocks his head to the side. The elevator stops before them with a cheerful _ding_ – and he grins when she wavers, uneasy with the idea of spending even just the short trip to the SCU's floor trapped in a small box with him. But when he steps in, then turns around and beckons her closer, she sighs and follows.

"For what it's worth, I think you're missing out," he says once the doors close.

"On Rigsby?" she laughs.

"On happiness," he answers, raising his lips in a parody of a smile. "You have no way to know if you'll ever meet your soulmate, Grace. But Rigsby's right there."

"The rules – "

"Meh. The rules don't mean anything when it comes to what you really want in your life. You know that already."

She stays silent as the elevator climbs up, and up, and stops with another _ding_.

"Can I ask you something?" she asks, just as the door open.

"You just did," he answers, grinning when she rolls her eyes.

They walk to the empty bullpen side by side, only parting ways when he gets to his couch. He sits, picks a book at random on the window shelf, and waits until she turns to face him, just like he knew she would.

"Jane?"

"Hmm?"

"If I ask, will you answer my question?"

"Sure, I can try."

"You, uh – you told me last year some of the happiest couples you knew weren't soulmates. Was that true?"

He looks up from his book, rubs his chin. Grace seems – desperate. _Hungry_. Her arched eyebrows are sculpted into a sad, elegant curve, with just enough contained eagerness to assure him that whatever reason she has for asking, it comes from deep inside. He just isn't sure he holds the answer she so wants to hear.

"Yes, it is," he answers after another second of hesitation. "Actually – "

Her eyes widen slightly, and he closes the book, leaves it on the side table, then leans forward.

"Actually, it's more that the only soulmate couples I knew were unhappy together."

She deflates, as he knew she would – and he's surprised to actually feel a small amount of guilt about it.

"Did you know many?"

"A few," he says noncommittally. "However, just because I don't happen to know any happy soulmate couples doesn't mean there aren't. I mean, if they ever happen to share more than names in palms and work together to _create_ their happiness, there's no reason soulmates shouldn't find something good together."

"You think so?"

"Sure. Didn't you tell me your parents were soulmates?"

"They're getting a divorce."

"Oh."

She shrugs, grimacing.

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that," he adds, trying to hide the awkwardness he feels inside.

"It's fine. What were you saying earlier?"

"That, uh – statistically, soulmate couples can't _all_ be unhappy. But that's the point."

"What point?"

"The stats, Grace. Think about it. The statistical probability of actually _meeting_ your soulmate is – well, I don't think it deserves to miss on what you could have right now. And Rigsby, he's one of the good guys. At least you can be sure of that."

 _Bravo, Paddy. Sam and Pete would be so proud of you._

He rolls his eyes inwardly. But any urge to laugh at the notion of himself spouting _love advice_ to a young colleague dies when he meets Grace's eyes again. _Haunted_ doesn't even begin to describe the look on her face.

"Would you follow your own advice?"

"I already did."

His throat tightens, as it does every time something reminds him of his family – and really, a cup of tea would be fantastic _right about now_.

"I mean," she adds swallowing. "I mean, would you follow your own advice _now?_ If you met someone you liked? Would you walk away from your soulmate?"

He shoots her a warning glance, concealing the effect her question has on him, and she averts her eyes. She's been with them long enough – she should know there's no place for that kind of relationship in his life. Not even with –

– with _anyone_.

A part of him is impressed, though. That was a nice little payback for his earlier comment – at least if one admits she's the type to avenge herself in passive-aggressive ways, something he isn't yet quite sure she does on purpose.

"What if I meet my soulmate next month, or – or next year? What then?" she whispers after a few minutes of silence.

"Well, that depends on how much you value your relationship, don't you think?"

Grace's expression is still cloudy, with an unformed sentence hanging on her lips – but Rigsby chooses that moment to come running into the bullpen, all knotted muscles and worried eyebrows, and she averts her eyes again, busies herself at her computer.

"Jane! There you are!"

The leather of his couch sticks to his sweaty palms as he pushes himself up.

"Something wrong?" he asks.

"It's Lisbon," answers Rigsby, out of breath. "They found her fingerprints on the murder weapon."

 _Of course they did._

"What? That's not possible!" says Grace.

"She's upstairs?" he asks, already in motion.

"With Minelli, yeah. Hey, wait!"

He stops and turns, eyebrows raised, until Rigsby catches up to him.

"Uh, Cho said we should meet at the coffee shop near the DoJ."

"Now?"

"Well, yeah."

"I'll join you later," he says, walking toward the stairs again.

"Where are you going?"

"Where do you think?" he answers with a slight grin.

One that slips off his lips as soon as he climbs up the stairs – because for half a second, he found himself glad for Rigsby's interruption. Glad Grace didn't have time to push him for more answers, glad she didn't have time to converge on the line of questioning he saw lurking in the shadows of her eyes.

Glad she was unable to read him, and unable to call him out on that one night, fifteen years ago, when he sat staring at his palm on a cold couch in Kansas.

* * *

"Your fingerprint is on the magazine of the murder weapon," thunders Minelli, waving the gun twice in her direction. "Tell me why I shouldn't be throwing up in the bathroom right now!"

"It's a lab error," she says. "It must be! They're overworked and under-funded – this happened last year with the LAPD! Just have them re-test it."

The disappointment – the _anger_ in her boss' voice, all over his face, feels like a blow to the chest. She _hates_ the way he glares at her. It's nearly enough to have her reconsider the idea of concealing what happened two days ago. But the points she exposed to Jane still stand, even if she knows doing nothing is just as bad.

She just doesn't know how to stop this freight train anymore.

"Come on! You don't think I did this?"

"What I think is that I'm up to my asterisk in political quicksand. You and your team are off the McTier case, obviously."

She nods. Of course. She expected that – letting her work on the case now that she appears compromised wouldn't be acceptable anyway.

 _A bit like Jane and the Red John case. Different. But the same._

She swallows.

 _In more ways than one._

"I understand. Are we throwing it to the FBI?"

"No," chuckles Minelli.

He waves Bosco in. Her colleague appears uncertain as he walks up to them, his expression halfway between compassion and the dedicated blankness he usually keeps around suspects.

"Hey, Lisbon. How about this, huh?"

She acknowledges him with a nod and a greeting, feeling as blindsided now as she did just a few weeks ago, when Minelli took away her case. Her _other_ case. And her boss must see it, because there are faint undertones of apology in his voice.

"He knows as much about the McTier case as you do, it makes sense. And _yes_ ," he adds sternly. "I had to pull some strings."

She nods.

It doesn't make anything better.

 _You promised not to steal my cases anymore, Sam._

"Thank you. I – guess."

"No, don't misunderstand me. If you're guilty, I want you nailed. I just don't want the Feebs strolling around my offices asking impertinent questions."

Minelli's gruff explanation, despite the harsh words, makes her feel a little better. For all the bluster, he cares – he's not just throwing her to the wolves. He has her back, just like he always had.

"So you understand I have to ask you some questions now. Nothing personal," says Bosco.

"Absolutely. Shoot."

She looks up, catches his gaze – wishes she could read his blank expression, from which all compassion has been wiped. They stay that way, eyes locked, for about half a second – just enough that she gets a strange, uneasy floating feeling in her stomach, as if she was in free fall. Then Jane pushes the door open, sauntering inside without a care in the world, and his entrance breaks their silent connection.

The way Bosco's expression turns cold so quickly shakes her to the core.

"Hi everybody!" says Jane brightly. " _Ah_ ," he adds when he sees her, eyes twinkling warmly. "Well. Bet you wish you wore some gloves, huh?"

She bites the inside of her cheek, hides a smile. Trust Jane to keep teasing her even in the worst possible situation. His banter with Bosco is a lot less friendly, however, and she quickly has to intervene. When they finally stop shooting glares at each other, she's more than ready for the interrogation.

"Where were you Tuesday night?"

Or so she thought.

"I – " she flounders. " – was at home, watching TV. Nobody saw me."

She carefully avoids looking into Jane's direction, afraid she'll unravel if she so much as catches his gaze.

Sam frowns.

"What'd you watch?"

"Some – reality show?" she answers, wincing at her impromptu soprano performance.

Sam's frown deepens.

"Which?"

She opens her mouth, then closes it, feeling more and more like a deer in the headlights.

"Oh, _stop_ ," says Jane behind her, startling her. "It's okay, Lisbon. No need to lie."

 _What?_

"She was with me," he adds.

She can _feel_ behind her shoulder the motion of him rocking on his feet lightly, unable to stay still – and as her left hand climbs up to hold her mother's cross, she prays for the ground to swallow her up alive.

 _Second time in two days_ , whispers the cynical part of her mind. _Must be some sort of record_.

"She was with you," repeats Sam, his voice flat, carefully controlled despite the glints of anger splattered over his features.

"Of course. I showed up after hours because I wanted to ch – "

" – _talk about the Red John case_ ," she interrupts, stressing the words, hand clenching her cross so hard she wouldn't be surprised if it embedded itself in her skin _right over his damn name_.

She _really_ doesn't want to know what he was about to say.

"I'm sorry," she adds, looking up at Sam, then at her boss, who both glare sternly. "I didn't want you to know because, uh – "

" – because we aren't on the case, and you people always make such a fuss about _rules_. It's very tiring," says Jane, naturally picking up when she falters.

"Jane. _Not_ helping," she growls.

"So what'd you talk about then?" asks Sam, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"I told him about – " she starts.

"I was asking Jane."

She shuts up and bites her lip again, worried about Jane's answer, insulted by Sam's casual dismissal. But she isn't in a position to fight for herself – she can still feel the weight of Minelli's annoyance and disappointment over her shoulder, reminding her that she is a _suspect_ in this investigation, and that flying off the handle is just an invitation to look closer into their lies. So she waits, boiling inside with the desire to lash out, praying that this doesn't turn into more of a mess. She has no desire to clean up afterwards.

Jane, on the other hand, sports a grin full of teeth and faces Sam without a hint of uncertainty. She can't help thinking they look like wildcats circling each other, preparing to fight over a bone.

Her mind shirks away from any attempt to identify what – or _whom_ – exactly that bone might be.

"Why would you ask _me?_ "

"Seems to me your intervention is pretty convenient, that's why," says Sam, hands on his hips, confronting him heads-on.

"If you think I'm lying – "

"You _are_ a professional liar. Everyone knows that."

" – then why would you ask _me_ , and not Lisbon here who's the poster child for virtue and honesty? Surely her word weighs more than – "

Jane interrupts himself, and his grin becomes positively feral.

" _Ah_. You're trying to trip me up. Did you believe I'm unaware of your arrangement? Well, tough luck," he adds, turning his body sideways as if to present less of a target – a surprising posture for someone who has no notion of physical combat. "She told me you agreed to let us be there for the take-down. _If_ you ever get there, of course."

The vein bulging on Sam's temple is alarming.

She probably has a matching one.

 _How the_ hell _did he know about that?_

"Oh, _really?_ Did she mention _anything else_ then?"

"You mean, that you want me to stay in the car for the take-down? Of course she told me. She wouldn't hide that from me now, would she?" he shrugs.

" _Okay_. That's enough, Jane. I think we all got the point, right?" she interrupts, jumping to her feet and placing herself between them. "So uh, I have an alibi. Are we done?"

" _No_ , and no you don't. The murder occurred at night. What time did he leave your place?"

Her heart stops. A quick glance over her shoulder does nothing to reassure her either. Jane's stony expression is solely focussed on Sam, still caught in this unspoken duel of theirs – _pissing contest, more like_ – and she realises that somehow, between two strikes and parry, suspicions have shifted from her to _Jane_. And she cannot – _will_ not – remain silent anymore.

 _Nobody_ comes after a member of her team without facing the consequences.

"He crashed on my couch," she says, trying to appear casual.

"I crashed on her couch," answers Jane at the same time.

His eyes meet hers, raised eyebrows flashing his surprise. Then she fights the urge to close hers, as the full weight of what they both just implied reaches her conscious thoughts.

 _This is a disaster. Why did I allow him to stay here again?_

"Cute double act," interrupts Minelli. "Alright. Now, tell me if I understood this correctly, Agent Lisbon. Your consultant Patrick Jane met with you after hours to discuss a case _neither of you_ work on – actually, no. Scratch that. A case from which both of you were _specifically banned_ from, following which you let him sleep in your _home?_ "

"Just on her couch," interjects Jane, both hands raised up. "No need to make it sound so – _raunchy_."

Her eyes linger just a second too long on Jane's left palm. When she turns away from him, Sam is glowering, cataloguing every one of her expressions, and dread falls heavily on her shoulders because she knows he saw. She knows he knows – without a doubt now.

"Do I have to remind you of the CBI's policy of non-fraternisation, Agent?" says her boss.

"No sir."

"Do I have to explain to you how a casual relationship _of any kind_ between a supervisor and subordinate is a _major_ breach of regulation, not to mention conflict of interest?"

"No sir," she repeats.

"Oh, _stop_. Don't take it out on Lisbon, we did nothing wrong. _She_ did nothing wrong!" says Jane, waving a hand in the air. "Her couch was comfortable, I fell asleep, she didn't have the heart to wake me up. At least this time I wasn't sleeping in the bullpen, right?"

Minelli glares.

"It will _never_ happen again, sir," she says, eyeing the tip of her shoes.

"It better not," answers Minelli, frowning. "Get out of here. _All_ of you."

Sam doesn't look happy about the outcome, but she couldn't care less – she's first out the door, nearly running down three employees from the Archives in her haste to get away.

Footsteps follow, someone calling her name, but she doesn't wait – right now she needs some time alone.

Some time to process.

She can already hear the whispers following her as she dashes purposefully to her office. Rumours will soon follow, she knows. And she doesn't fear them, not really. She couldn't care less what her colleagues say behind her back, as long as it doesn't contaminate her team, her boss, and the very few colleagues she considers true friends.

 _Though it might be a little late for that._

They can talk out of earshot all they want, or even _within_ earshot, as long as they act with decency to her face. Because what gets to her – the reason she's running away right now – isn't the whispering.

It's the loss of respect.

* * *

"But you're assuming Lisbon didn't kill him. What if she did kill him? What would you do?"

He isn't sure what pushes him to ask. Sheer provocation, probably – stress has a pernicious way of sneaking into his mind and convincing it to run away with his mouth. All three of his team mates look uneasy, unsure of how to answer. Rigsby especially looks pained, and he's reminded of how much all three of them look up to Lisbon. That all three of them would go through storms and fire on her command, or even against her wishes, just to be by her side in times of trouble.

Cho looks at him, hands turned up.

"What would you do?" he asks.

"Me?" he answers. "I'd walk away. But I ain't the law."

"Yes, we walk away," says Grace.

Cho agrees.

Rigsby doesn't.

He wishes he could say their reactions are a surprise. They really aren't, however, and he stays silent as they debate the problem, unintentionally wedging tension and pain between themselves.

"Okay, _okay!_ Look, Lisbon didn't do it anyhow. I mean, right? She's not capable of that."

Rigsby's expression reminds him disturbingly of a kicked puppy. And perhaps this is why he cannot bring himself to cast doubt on Lisbon before them. That, or simply that he knows the truth – and lying to them wouldn't do any good in this case, even if Lisbon seems to disagree.

She'll need their help soon enough, he's sure of it.

"She _could_ have," he says instead. "I don't think she did, but she's certainly capable."

"But you _don't_ think she did it?" asks Grace.

He chews on the inside of his cheek.

"No," he answers after a second of hesitation. "In fact, I'm sure she didn't."

All three of them let out a relieved breath and fall back on their chair, and when they laugh – when even _Cho_ laughs – he chuckles a little with them.

"Who did, then?" asks Rigsby.

"I couldn't say," he answers, keeping his expression neutral. "But it has to be someone who gains something from framing Lisbon, isn't it?"

"You think she's being framed? It's not just a mistake from the lab?"

"That's not possible," says Cho. "She didn't even come close to the gun. There's no way her fingerprint got there by mistake. Jane's right, she's being framed."

He nods, listening to them discuss the case further, his mind stretching in multiple directions at once. On the case, of course – on how to subtly introduce the idea of the culprit being in the CBI. But also on their group dynamics.

It's interesting, how just a few words spoken in defence of their leader united them again.

Until now he always figured himself to be an outsider, a useful addition tacked to their seamless unit – but the way they all looked up at him for directions and immediately deferred to his judgement proves otherwise. He's one of them now. Not just _useful_ , but _part_ of them. Of course, he knew that already – Cho even told him to his face not too long ago. But it was so easy to dismiss, to easy to deny – being _told_ isn't the same as being confronted with irrefutable empirical evidence.

He hasn't allowed himself to be part of anything since his family died.

"Okay, let's do this right," says Cho, standing up. "Van Pelt and I are going to see McTier's boss, see if someone he knew profits from his death. Rigsby, you coming too?"

"No, uh – I know a guy in Pelican Bay," answers Rigsby. "I'll call him, see if he can send information over about McTier. Maybe he got into trouble with the wrong people inside. And I'll check if I can get us access to the SFPD files too, if Bosco didn't take them yet."

"Okay. Jane?"

He shrugs.

"I'll be on my couch if you need me."

"Right. Meet you back in two hours."

He picks up his phone as they walk back to the parking lot – because he doesn't really intend to sit idle on his couch while law enforcement is falling down on Lisbon's back, and if she isn't ready to take charge and make plans to trap Carmen, he'll happily do it himself. He's _part of them_ , and they've done enough waiting around already.

"Hey Jane?" says Rigsby suddenly, interrupting his train of thought.

"Hmm?"

"You, uh – you don't _really_ plan to take a nap this evening, don't you?"

He looks up from the text message he was writing, raising an eyebrow. Rigsby sounds determined and unsure at the same time, his flickering hands telegraphing agitation.

"Why not?" he asks, making sure to appear nothing but genuinely curious.

"Well, aren't you going to help Lisbon?"

His second eyebrow joins the first, perched high on his forehead. Obviously Rigsby misreads his astonishment for disbelief, or maybe he spent too much time perfecting his indolent bourgeois persona before the team, because he keeps going.

"I mean – you care, don't you? Both of you are pretty close. If she's been framed, you need to tell her. You need to come up with a crazy plan like you always do and – and just _do_ something!"

Rigsby interrupts himself, swallows.

"She needs _your_ help," he adds. "Not just ours."

He stares hard for a second, keeping his expression neutral, then raises one finger and returns his attention to the half-written text message on his phone, ignoring his colleague's affronted noise. Just before sending it, he raises the screen to Rigsby's face.

"Will that do?"

" 'When you need me, I'll be on the couch' ?" Rigsby reads out loud. " _Seriously?_ "

"She's in charge, you know. It's not the other way around."

"Of course I know. What's that supposed to mean?"

He doesn't answer – sends the message instead, then puts back the phone in his pocket.

"You offered already, didn't you?" asks Rigsby, comprehension slowly dawning on his features. "And she said go to hell, or something."

He grins.

"Come on. I actually have a reason to stay on that couch now."

As they walk back to headquarters, he cannot help pondering the fact that _Rigsby_ was the team mate to come to him, despite being the only one of them completely unaware of their matching –

– despite having no inkling of –

– _despite –_

He rubs his eyes, growls under his breath.

 _Why is the word still so hard to acknowledge?_

* * *

 _It's not like you to run and hide_ , whispers her mind as she finally reaches her office and locks the door behind her.

"I'm not _hiding_ ," she mutters to herself, pulling on the shutters. "My head hurts and I need quiet."

The room is dark when she finally allows herself to breathe. She sits on the couch slowly, then lies down, neck draped over the armrest. Her head is pounding every time she moves, and her muscles are stiff – things she felt on and off lately, but never really paid attention to unless the pounding became unbearable, until the muscle stiffness turned into cramps and nausea.

 _Drugs withdrawal over everything else. Great. Just great._

She only has time to take three deep breaths before someone knocks at the door.

Pushing hair away from her face, she gets up unenthusiastically.

"Coming," she says.

She expected Jane, or maybe one of her team members coming up with new damning information about the case – but when Sam appears instead, leaning against the wall, suddenly she wishes she _really was_ hiding.

"Can I talk to you?"

"Sure. Come in."

As she walks to her desk and he flicks open the lights, she can't help but think of how many times they've been in this situation recently – isolating themselves in one's or the other's office to talk, and more often than not yell at each other. She really wishes they didn't need so many _adjustments_ to their relationship – related to the workplace or otherwise.

"You don't look well," he says.

"I'm fine. What did you want to talk about?"

She prays he won't bring up Jane again, and their bond. But when he sits in the chair facing her and brings his hands up, rests his chin on them, she nearly rolls her eyes, stopping herself just in time. This is Sam's _I'm on your side_ posture, the one that brings his eyes on the same level as the person he's talking with. The one he uses on victim's friends and relatives, especially women and kids.

The interrogation isn't over.

"I know you and Jane lied about your alibi."

"I didn't lie."

"Yes. You did. I don't know _what_ you're hiding, but – "

" _I didn't lie!_ We talked about the Red John case."

"And then you invited him to sleep on your couch?" says Sam, eyebrows raised. "I've known you for a long time, Teresa. You would never, _ever_ do that. For Christ's sake, you probably wouldn't even let him inside your place if he showed up randomly like he said he did."

She stops herself from looking away but cannot prevent herself from biting her bottom lip, and she knows even just that small gesture screams guilt to Sam's trained detective eye.

"Did he do this? Are you covering for him?" he asks, leaning back, his hands falling near hers on her desk.

"No," she answers.

"Because if he killed McTier – "

She laughs, sharp and biting.

"Please. Jane and a gun? He wouldn't be caught alive with one, he hates firearms."

Sam's eyes are cast downward, staring at their hands so close to each other, and for a second she thinks he's going to grab her. A small shiver creeps up her spine when he looks up again, and she resists the temptation to cross her arms defensively.

 _Déjà vu._

She shivers again.

"Then – is he covering for you?" Sam asks, picking up a pen and turning it between his fingers.

" _No!_ How many times do I have to tell you? We were both at my place all night."

His dubious expression speaks for itself, and _crap_ – she _has_ to get through to him!

"Listen," she says. "You know me, right? You know I'm a terrible liar."

"That, you are."

"Then look at me. Look me in the eyes and listen carefully. _Jane was with me Tuesday night._ Now. Am I lying?"

His face becomes a neutral mask, concealing his thoughts and emotions – and she was never able to read through that one, despite knowing each and every one of his expressions by heart. Then he sighs and raises his hands, the scar tissue in his left palm catching the light for a second.

"It's out of my hands anyway," he says. "Minelli doesn't believe you either. We'd like to ask you to take a polygraph."

"What? No. Why would I do that? I didn't kill McTier!"

"Nobody said you did yet."

" _Yet?!_ "

She _so_ wishes they were in his office right now, allowing her to storm off. This time she doesn't stop herself from snatching back her hands and crossing them over her chest. Let him think what he wants. If she cannot escape and leave him behind in her own office, she deserves at least some leeway in body language.

"Listen," says Sam, jolting her attention back to him. "What's the harm in taking the polygraph if you didn't do it? You know how it goes. They strap you to the machine, they ask a few questions, you tell the truth. Then you're cleared once and for all, everybody goes home, and nobody speaks of this again."

"Am I a suspect?" she asks coldly.

He hesitates.

"Your fingerprint _was_ on the murder weapon. We've got to clear that."

"So I _am_ a suspect."

"I don't _have_ any suspects yet. Why are you being so difficult about this?"

"Why are you so insistent I take a polygraph?" she shoots back.

"It's just routine. What's the harm if you're not lying?"

She glances away just a tiny fraction of a second – but when she looks back at him, his eyes are cold, and she knows he caught it.

Her phone buzzes loudly on her desk, cutting him off and making them both jump. She flips it open and brings it to her ear, only realising it's a text message alert when nobody answers at the other end of the line. But Sam is waiting with teeth clenched, his unvoiced accusations compressing her mind like a vise-grip – and if this is how she gets rid of him for the time being, then she'll pray for forgiveness tonight. For now, it'll have to do.

"Important call. Talk to you later," she mouths silently in his direction.

His spine stiffens, she can feel the heavy weight of his anger and disbelief on her shoulders – but she turns aside anyway, mumbles a few gibberish words in her dead phone, and waits for him to get out. When she hears the door closing behind him, she stays utterly still, listening intently, waiting until she's absolutely sure he isn't coming back.

Then she shoves the device away, slides it across her desk, and lets out a deep sigh.

She feels like a teenager.

 _If Carmen didn't do it, then the most likely suspect is Bosco_ , whispers Jane's voice in her ear again.

And for the first time she stops pushing back the thought. Sam urging her to take a polygraph test she _knows_ won't end well for her – something he too must be aware of since he knows she lied to him – confuses the hell out of her. He doesn't really believe this will make her life easier, does he? They both know the validity of polygraph testing is questionable at best, and certainly not an indication of guilt – merely an indication of anxiety levels.

 _I don't want to believe he could do that to me._

But if he didn't, _why why why_ is he asking her to take that polygraph?

And – perhaps more importantly, if Jane's words are to be believed – what does he gain from it?

A new bout of pounding in her brain distracts her from her thoughts, and she remembers the text message sitting unread in her phone. She feels claustrophobic in the dark office now, opens the door and shutters again before checking the screen.

Jane's picture blinks back at her.

 _When you need me, I'll be on the couch._

She frowns, looks in the bullpen – and there he is, sipping tea with a small smile, waving when he notices her watching. Her name in his palm glints briefly, taunting her.

She rolls her eyes.

 _Typical._

Then her attention is attracted to the other end of the hallway, where Sam is standing before Dr. Carmen, and she freezes. They seem thoroughly engrossed in their discussion, hands flying up and down in a rare display of emotion – then Sam glances in her direction and a strange stricken expression washes over his features. It appears and disappears in a second, hard to see from so far away – she isn't even sure she saw it to begin with – but in the next moment he interrupts his discussion with her therapist, leaving Dr. Carmen behind, both sporting a displeased expression.

She's aware of the fallouts of trying to read too much into casual events, especially without knowing the full circumstances. But the primal fear gripping her heart, making her mouth dry, her breathing short, and her palms sweaty doesn't want to be reasoned with.

And for the first time since she woke up Wednesday morning, she admits to herself that not knowing _what happened_ , being unsure of _who did this to her_ is one of the most terrifying experiences of her adult life, no matter how many life or death situations she's been involved in. Because in those occasions she was armed. She was able to defend herself. She was able to identify the enemy at a glance and take them down on her own.

Right now she's caught in a place of helplessness, of lack of control, of paranoia. A place with negative influences strong enough to make her want to avoid daily confrontations with people she usually trusts – an impulse so completely out of character, she barely recognises herself anymore.

She's used to be strong and brave.

The girl who puts make-up on her bruises, who keeps fighting for herself and her brothers no matter what.

The woman who saves her male colleagues repeatedly – from dangerous suspects and their own stupidity alike – and does what needs to be done.

That's who she _is_.

Always first to focus on action – _not_ reaction.

Always first to take the next step in the right direction.

 _What is the next step, this time?_

Trust.

She takes a deep breath in, wipes her palms on her trousers, and walks to the bullpen where Jane is sitting alone, reading and sipping his tea. He doesn't move as she gets closer, engrossed in both book and drink. And for a moment she stays there silent, just a few feet away – unable to ask what she came for, or even talk at all.

Then she swallows the heavy lump in her throat, because _for God's sake_ , it's time to _woman up_.

"Jane," she says.

He raises his eyes to hers.

"Oh hey, Lisbon," he answers, glancing at the phone she still holds in her hand. "I imagine you came to ask for my help now?"

She nods shortly, swallows again, left hand clenching and unclenching on the fabric of her blouse. Jane puts tea and book down, and gets up.

"How may I be of assistance?" he asks, laughter hiding in the twinkle of his eyes, and _damn him to hell_ for making her say the words out loud.

"I need to know who did this to me."

He cocks his head to the side, a surprised expression on his face.

 _Isn't this what he was expecting?_

"You already know who did."

"I need to be sure."

There's a joke on the tip of his tongue, probably something about _good police work_ and _obsession with proof_ – but he must take in how unsteady she feels, because he stops himself and nods.

"So – you want me to hypnotise you."

"Yeah. Can you do that now?"

"Okay. Sure. We'll need to find somewhere nice and quiet, though. We can't do this here."

"Why not?"

"You'll need to be able to relax."

"Work's not over. I can't leave now."

He points to the clock on the wall.

"It's nearly five. I think you can clock out."

"I don't know," she answers, biting her lip – suddenly scared, unsure if this is a good idea.

"Come on, don't back down now," Jane says, touching her elbow lightly. "If you need to get answers, we'll get them, I promise. You're not afraid of me, right?"

She scoffs.

"Of course not."

"Then come on. Let's get out of here."

He grins, touches her elbow again.

"Your place or mine?"

She rolls her eyes and swats his shoulder.

But she's still chuckling as they get to her car.

* * *

 **There might be delays in the next few chapters.**

As some of you already know, I've been battling with C-PTSD and other associated mental health troubles for a while. This last year has been incredible, a positive milestone in my personal calendar, but unfortunately things have been tumbling down recently and September especially has been hellish.

I'm slowly picking myself up again, but communication in general (which includes writing) keeps being a challenge. No worries though, this is not an abandon notice. I just need to pace myself a bit more, which means it may take some time before I'm able to post again.

On a lighter note, happy Thanksgiving to my fellow Canadians! Hope you have a chance to enjoy the colours if you're living in the Northern hemisphere, autumn is such a beautiful season. =)


	12. Interlude: Red Badge II

_**Disclaimer: As you probably guessed by now, this show and its characters aren't mine.**_

 **A/N:** Hi! Uhm, long time no see, haha. Sorry about the long delay. I have no real explanation to offer except that I'm a little bit like a wild animal sometimes and, when in trouble, my first instinct is to run away and hide (sometimes literally, sometimes through distractions). Hence me working on other projects before coming back to this one. Hope this chapter will be worth the wait for you.

Also, I'd just like to add a quick but heartfelt thank you to everyone who reviewed on this story or another since my last update. I've been lax in answering, but I'd like you to know that you give me strength and courage to keep writing when life is hard. Every review I get is deeply appreciated.

 **Warnings:** More or less graphic retelling of child physical abuse and other scenes of violence, alcoholic rage (parent toward child), some post-trauma reaction (hyper-reactivity to triggers, jumpiness, etc.) and overly emotional characters. Mention of (canon) drugging of a character.

 **Spoilers:** Some dialogues are taken directly from 2.03 "Red Badge". Small reference to events happening in 1.18 "Russet Potatoes" and information given in 3.07 "Red Hot".

* * *

 **Kindred**  
 **Interlude: Red Badge II**

Lisbon insists on driving and he lets her do as she wishes, aware that this small symbolic gesture comforts her more than anything he could say. Barely five minutes on their way, and he already knows this is going to be –

– _complicated_.

To say the least.

"We don't _have_ to do this, you know."

She glares. He raises his hands.

 _Yep. Complicated._

"You're not going to ask anything – _intimate_ , right?" she asks two minutes later.

There's an alarming whistling sound coming from her lungs. He frowns, trying to figure out if this is hyperventilation or asthma.

 _Lisbon doesn't have asthma, right?_

Her breathing becomes more and more panicked as he listens, and a smidgen of guilt settles in his stomach when he realises it's because he didn't reassure her right away.

"Of course not. Hypnosis isn't magic. Even if I did ask, I wouldn't be able to make you do or say anything you don't want to."

"Are you _sure?_ 'Cause last time with Rigsby you nearly died, and I'm pretty sure Rigsby doesn't _actually_ want to kill you."

He rolls his eyes.

"Rigsby thought we were going for a swim. That's not the same thing as getting you to lower your inhibitions enough to spill all your deepest, darkest secrets. _Eyes ahead!_ "

A car honks on their right – the lights turned red. They nearly miss the stop.

It does nothing to help settle Lisbon's funky breathing.

"They probably aren't as bad as you think, by the way," he adds with a small grin. "Your dark secrets? I'm sure I've heard _and_ done worse."

She flashes him an anxious glance before focussing on the road again. He sighs. He was hoping to draw her into a discussion to let off some steam, but in her current mood it might do more harm than good.

"It's not like in the movies. You'll be in control the whole time, I promise."

"We both saw Rigsby bash the head of that guy on the table, don't tell me _he_ was in control of his actions!"

"You're mixing up control and impulse. Rigsby probably often gets the urge to bash suspects' faces on tables, but he has enough social veneer to stop himself before giving in. Hypnosis stripped him of those inhibitions. But _you_ don't get the urge to spill all of your secrets. Do you?"

She hesitates, bites her lip. Glances at him quickly, then tightly clenches her left hand on the wheel.

"No."

"Then there's nothing I could do to force you."

She doesn't look nearly as reassured as she should. But she takes a sharp turn on the next street instead of keeping up her end of the conversation, then parks in front of her apartment building.

"Let's get this over with," she says, jumping out of the car.

He follows at a more sedate pace, looking around. It's a nice neighbourhood. _Safe_. Not the most recent constructions, but clean and well maintained, with large trees growing here and there. He smiles – the light outer walls and all around quietness are probably a soothing sight after a day spent trudging through deep human misery.

"You coming?" she calls, impatiently waiting near the front door.

He climbs the stairs two by two. She lets him in.

"Sorry, it's kind of a mess. Didn't have time to clean up in the last few days," she babbles, uncharacteristically fidgeting.

The sun lights up the earth tones of the pictures on her wall. Trees in warm colours, fruits and seeds hanging from branches, autumn leaves. Calming but lively at the same time – _lived in_ – and a thousand times better than the dead trees on his own walls.

 _Hotel manager could learn a thing or two from Lisbon's apartment._

"Don't worry about it. It's a nice place. Didn't tell you last time – I like those pictures."

"Those are mostly from the last tenants."

"Which ones are yours?"

The question is lost in her sharp intake of breath, followed by more whistling from her lungs. He's about to point it out to her when she clears her voice.

"When are we going to do this?"

It's painful to see her so agitated, more so because he's starting to realise there's nothing he'll be able to do to calm her down. He'll have to take her by surprise. Not his favourite hypnosis method – it will only work if she trusts him enough to give in when he scrambles her brain. And _that_ could be a problem.

On the other hand, if her mind was malleable enough to accept his suggestion about Bosco being a suspect – which he didn't even _intend_ as a suggestion in the first place – then perhaps there won't be a problem at all.

"Let's just do it," says Lisbon again. "Let's – let's go."

 _Alright._

"No."

"No?"

"No, I'm not going to hypnotise you, Lisbon."

* * *

"You're too stressed."

" _Are you kidding me?!_ "

Her muscles are so knotted it's a miracle she doesn't topple down when he turns over. He probably noticed this because he puts his hands on her shoulders, stabilising her. She finds herself rooted to the spot, sight caught in a mess of blonde curls and green eyes, unable to turn her attention away.

She never noticed the flecks of gold in his irises before.

"No, it's okay. Shhh. It's okay," he says, and she barely hears the words, drowning in his focussed expression.

Time seems to stretch and widen to enclose her as he talks about counting down and going round and melting away in a puddle of relaxation. At first she tenses, but his eyes are soft and his voice is softer, pulling her in. And she realises somehow _it's going to be okay_.

For the first time in weeks she feels safe and calm, floating gently in a sheltered bubble above her own body, and the sensation is exhilarating.

" _Sleep_ ," he whispers to her ear.

He surrounds her by warmth, blankets her in honey and spices, green wood and tea. Gentle heat comes and goes like evanescent waves over her skin, climbing up briefly to cover her nape, then her crown. Then back down over her shoulders in a light caress that leaves tendrils of sunlight dancing behind her eyelids. The faint whispers in her ear mingle with the sounds of the ocean, soothing rhythms and quiet murmurs, hushed noises breaking over the hot sand she can nearly feel under her feet.

 _The waves come and go, and each one washes away more of your worries. You feel so calm and relaxed. Come with me now. Walk forward, follow my voice._

Alright. Alright, she'll walk. If she remembers how.

 _This way. One feet before the other._

Oh, right. This is how walking works, isn't it?

 _Good. Now sit and relax. You're doing very well._

She grins. It's hard not to – there's still a wave moving up and down her back, playing on her shoulders, or is it the sun gliding over her arms? She doesn't care – it's warm and comfortable and she feels _so good_. She cannot remember the last time she felt so relaxed.

 _Now. A bit further down the hill, there's a door. Can you see it?_

Oh yeah! What's a door doing on the beach? It's pretty funny how it just stands there on its own.

 _It's plain, nothing fancy_ – _maybe the door to a place that makes you feel safe. A door that reminds you of happy times and quietness._

It looks like the door to her office. She smiles. If she opened it, would she find Jane sleeping on her couch again? She reaches forward until her fingers meet fabric and warm skin – and she frowns, because that doesn't feel like the glass and chrome of a door at all. A small reassuring squeeze tickles her palm and she grins again.

It doesn't matter. The door is there, and everything is okay.

 _Good. Now you open the door and see a set of stairs. They make you feel very safe. Do you see them?_

Yeah, yeah she does, and just looking at them is relaxing. A huge weight she wasn't aware of falls off her shoulders, and she sighs – she could stay there, unmoving, for a very long time.

 _Okay. Now you go down the first step. Then the second step. Calm and relaxed._

She sighs again. Alright. One step at a time. Slowly.

 _That's right. You're doing very good._

Yes. She is, isn't she?

 _So you're going down the steps, relaxing with each step. And now you reach the bottom, the very last step – the ultimate place of calm._

Oh yeah. Calm and relaxed. Everything is floating – in the air, in hot water currents, in space, it doesn't matter. The sensation is _perfect_.

 _How are you feeling?_

"Good," she whispers, barely able to form the word.

 _Good. You're going to remain in this relaxed trance state while we think about Tuesday afternoon. But first –_

Hmm?

– _you ate that enormous cheese sandwich last night, didn't you?_

"Yeah," she grins. "Love cheese."

 _Thought so._

It was a good one, too. A bit on the large side, perhaps, but it made a perfectly acceptable meal after a hard day of work. Mustard didn't even make the bread soggy.

 _Now, Tuesday. You can watch the whole day like it's a movie. Even detail is in focus, you can zoom into any moment you want. You can fast forward, rewind – you are in total control. Okay?_

"Okay."

The experience of watching a movie of herself filling forms is _extremely_ strange, especially when coupled with the ability to focus on every detail. Her hair is in disarray and there's a lose thread poking out from a button on her blouse. For a second she feels the irrepressible, childish urge to reach through the screen and pull on it.

 _Good. What do you see?_

Focus. Right.

"I'm finishing up the Form 41 on the Milbank case. I feel – "

– _tired_ , because I spent the night awake tying up lose ends after a suspect, now dead, guessed Jane and I were soulmates.

No.

– _worried_ , because tomorrow morning I have a medical appointment and I'm afraid I might die as young as my mother, without even having a family of my own.

No!

– _amused and annoyed at the same time_ , because I never know whether to expect something adorable or horrible from Jane. He can be so charming when he wants to, but he's so easily bored, always just one step away from a mess I need to clean up.

Absolutely _not!_

" – hungry, 'cause I skipped lunch," she answers, after a small hesitation.

The movie playing before her eyes flashes from the bullpen to the basement, and she grins.

"The new guy in the mail room is _hot_."

 _Is he?_

"Yeah."

Just look at him! About six feet tall. An athletic, lean body – not muscular, but not soft either. Short, straight black hair. A deep, gentle voice. Large, rough, _strong_ hands.

She shivers, unable to figure out why that description suddenly makes her uneasy.

 _Let's fast forward a little. Later in the day, you're having a fight with Bosco._

Rightful indignation replaces uneasiness.

"He accused me of having sex with Jane!"

A small puff of fresh air tickles her cheek, and she wonders distractedly who is laughing.

 _Yes, that's a crazy idea, isn't it?_

A _stupid_ idea, more like.

 _But you put him right in his place, didn't you?_

She grins.

"Yeah. Told him off. Felt good."

But it didn't feel good for long, she remembers now. Sam's expression appears on the screen larger than life, taking more space than it should – chasing away the benefits of her earlier relaxation, making her restless, agitated, until warmth engulfs her upper arms and she can breathe again.

It didn't feel good to yell at him, because – because –

 _Calm, Lisbon. It's okay. You're in a trance state._

"He stole my case."

 _Yes. You told him off for that too._

"He looks so angry, so – _cold_. This is not like Sam at all. He never looks at me like that."

 _Like what?_

"Like I betrayed him."

 _She's_ not the one who betrayed _him_. Why would he –

But this isn't something she wants to think about, because if she lingers on the reasons why Sam would react that way, it opens the door to a whole room of other dangerous thoughts, and it's not just about Sam anymore, it involves a late night in her office five years ago and another one just last year and the name in her palm and questions about Jane and soulmates and –

 _It's okay, it's okay. It's not real, Lisbon, just like a movie. Everything is alright._

"It is?"

She can't breathe, she can't –

 _Yes. It is. It's okay. Everything is okay._

She nods slightly, swallows the lump in her throat. Takes a deep breath.

It's okay. She doesn't have to think about it.

At all.

Ever.

 _Now. Let's fast-forward again._

"'Kay."

 _You're about to leave Bosco's office. Where is he?_

"Uh, sitting behind his desk. I'm at the door."

 _Did he give you something when you were together in his office?_

"No."

 _Did you drink or eat anything while you were together in his office?_

"No."

 _What about just before you left his office, did he give you something then?_

"No. He didn't give me anything at all."

 _Good. Very good. Tell me what happens next._

"I'm going back to the bullpen. There's Rebecca in the hallway – she never takes part in the rumour mill, I like that about her. Sam is lucky to have her help."

 _Does she give you something?_

"No. She just smile when we pass each other."

 _Good. What next?_

"Uh – Van Pelt is alone in the bullpen."

Jane isn't on his couch anymore, but she doesn't want to talk about that either – because she gossiped about him with Van Pelt, and she usually _never_ gossips. She _hates_ gossip, in fact – but Tuesday evening she gossiped about Jane's laugh, and there's a bit of guilt pooling in her stomach when she thinks about that now. So she shoves the thought away, hides it in a secret place with the memory of Jane laughing as he leaves her place in the morning, and gets back to Van Pelt.

"She's working late – she's a hard worker. She might do well if she manages not to sleep with Rigsby."

 _Where do you go now?_

She frowns. Things seem a bit fuzzy on the screen now – as if the camera lens was dirty, as if the movie had jump-starts. Where _does_ she go?

"I – I – home?" she says, squinting, trying to see better.

 _Do you? Where do you go, Lisbon?_

"I'm in my car. It's low on gas."

 _You're going too fast, Lisbon. Rewind a little, get back to the bullpen. Slow motion now. You walk out of your office?_

"'My office. Yes. One hour of work, then – I'm too tired. Need coffee – no wait, need to go home. Van Pelt is still at her desk, Jane isn't there – "

 _Slow down, Lisbon. Deep breaths. Everything is fine._

Slow. Okay. She can do slow.

 _Where do you go now?_

"I'm waiting for the elevator. There's someone coming behind me."

 _Who is it?_

"I don't – I don't know."

Anxiety is slowly sneaking its way into her mind again – she can nearly _see_ the feeling, a noxious white fog tainting everything.

She sees the fog better than she can see the screen.

 _It's okay, Lisbon. You're in a trance state. Everything's okay._

There's an arm handing her a mug. White mug, easily lost in the fog. There's too much – too much _what?_ The coffee, it – this is so confusing. Thoughts are born and die within the second, and she cannot quite grasp them. But that mug – that mug she remembers, that mug she knows, and –

"The coffee – "

 _What about the coffee?_

"The coffee tastes bad," she blurts out. "Too much nutmeg. Bitter as hell."

 _Who gave you the coffee, Lisbon?_

"I – I don't know. I don't – "

 _It's alright. It's alright._

No, it's not! It's not alright, she cannot see anything, there's too much fog. She has tunnel vision, cannot look up from the mug, it's so white, so blinding, so –

 _It's okay. Concentrate on the mug. What does it look like?_

"It's – it's white. Tan squares on white background. Ceramic. It's – "

 _Don't think, Lisbon. Everything is fine. Just concentrate on the mug. There's a hand holding it. Do you see it?_

If she concentrates on the mug, she cannot see the hand. If she concentrates on the hand, the mug disappears.

 _Lisbon, listen to me. Follow my voice. Do you trust me?_

Not all the time, she wants to say. Not in every situation. But –

"Yes," she says, because _this_ time she does – even if she doesn't know why.

She does.

 _Good. Now, look at the hand. Do you see it?_

She nods. The hand is there. White hand. Male. Jane? No. Not Jane. No ring. Too much hair on the knuckles. Not Jane. Who?

 _Can you see the arm it's attached to?_

"No. No, I can't. I – "

 _It's okay. Shhh. It's okay. Look at the mug again._

The mug. Blinding patches of white and tan shining through. Yes.

 _Does it seem familiar?_

She frowns. Familiar. Yes. She's seen that mug before. It's – bitterness of the nutmeg. No, wait. It wasn't nutmeg, it was – it was –

 _Where did you see the mug before, Lisbon?_

Her confused mind latches on the jumbled pictures and feelings tumbling inside. Argyle vests. Sweat. Uneasiness. Benevolent smile – too benevolent. Too honest to be real. Bitterness on the tongue, but no traces of spice. A dark briefcase. A lack of trust. Feeling annoyed and scared. Ants crawling over a wall – ants crawling over _her skin_. Being irked _over and over and over again_. So many weeks. So many appointments. Losing her time. Losing _time_. Headaches. Dizziness. Nausea.

 _Who gave you the mug?_

"Dr. Carmen," she answers, at last. "Dr. Carmen gave me the coffee mug."

* * *

Her forehead is warm under his palm when he brings her out of trance state. He watches, silent, as she blinks herself back to consciousness. The dark storm brewing on her features clashes with the streaks of sunset lingering on her hair.

" _Son_ of a _bitch_."

The hypnosis session didn't bring up anything new for him, aside of course from the personal information she volunteered. He stays unmoving when she gets up, comfortable on the footrest – waiting for her to exhaust her nervous energy.

Two minutes in, and he's well ahead in hatching a scheme to catch Carmen. Something to do with Cho's impassive expression, a text message from a burner phone, and something to simulate a gun shot.

 _Would breaking a window work? Maybe. We'd need a hammer though, nobody keeps that in the office. I'll have to buy a new – oh no, wait. The busted toaster in the SCU's kitchen makes a noise like that. Hmm. Could we borrow it without permission? Maybe if we tell Minelli, he'll_ –

But Lisbon is still pacing back and forth – it appears she won't calm down any time soon – and that doesn't bode well for the success of his plans. _Any_ plan. He leans back, scratches his chin.

"Trying to pace a hole in your carpet?"

"The _bastard_. I could _kill_ him. With my bare hands!"

"That would be counterproductive."

" _At least I'd feel better!_ "

"For five minutes, maybe. Then you'd feel bad, head over to Minelli to confess the whole thing, and land yourself in jail – or worse. Not the best outcome here, don't you think?"

She growls wordlessly and disappears in the kitchen. An echo of her words come back to his mind, fleeting memory he nearly forgot about until now.

 _I want to nail the bastard_ , she said that morning. _Not you. Me._

 _Hm. Right. Let's forget about the toaster._

He gets up with a sigh, stretches his back, and – when she doesn't come back – heads over to her side. The sound of running water echoes in the room, covering her small sniffles.

"Hey," he says, reaching for her shoulder. "It's gonna be okay, remember?"

"I _know_."

She wipes her eyes quickly, teeth clenching – those were not tears of helplessness, he realises. Those were tears of anger, of being forced to reign in her desire for swift, immediate retribution.

 _We may not be so different, after all._

"I just – I'm glad it wasn't Bosco. Thank you for clearing that for me," she adds, filling a cup of water. "But – _Dr. Carmen?_ It just – I don't understand. It makes no sense. _Why_ did he do that?"

"You must have annoyed him very much these last few weeks," he grins.

"Ha- _ha_. Very funny."

She rolls her eyes, but there's the hint of a smile hiding in behind the frown.

 _Good._

"I'm serious, Jane."

"Does it matter?"

"You mean, does it matter why I was framed for murder?"

"Hm. Well, when you put it like _that_ ," he says, rocking on his feet.

She rolls her eyes again, walks back to the living room, glass of water in hand. He follows. She paces back and forth, then stops. Leaves the cup on the nearby desk and bites her lip.

"Do you _really_ think he did it because I annoyed – "

"Of course not," he interrupts – and he's the one rolling his eyes now. "He must have been waiting for you to get into a gun fight again just to execute that plan."

"What do you mean, waiting for me to get into a gun fight _again?_ I'm not some sort of – of gun crazy cop!"

He raises his eyebrows.

"How many times have you been involved in a shooting this past year? At least four, five times, yes? More?"

She opens her mouth, then frowns. He hides a smile.

"I do my job."

"And you do it well. But everyone knows your team gets into more than its fair share of dangerous situations."

"Yeah, and whose fault is that?"

" _My point is_ , being summoned to the shrink's office was just a matter of time, Carmen knew that as well as anyone else. He's been planning this perfectly."

"Yeah, so perfectly," she mutters, walking back and forth. "Still doesn't explain why."

"You could ask when we catch him," he points out.

" _If_ we catch him."

"Oh, _come on_. Do you really think I'd let him get away with attacking _you?_ "

She stops in her tracks, gives him a sharp look. A nervous spasm in his left hand jabs his nails into his palm. He didn't realise he was clenching fists to begin with.

"That's what it means, being part of a team," he adds, a little awkwardly. "Right? When bad guys come after one of us, we – we don't let it stand. We retaliate. Together."

Surprise, mirth, bemusement, and just a hint of something warm flash over her features, disappears as quickly as it came. Then she nods, accepting his explanation without a word, and starts pacing again.

 _It would be much more productive to turn that restless energy on Carmen._

"Maybe – maybe I arrested a family member or a close friend," she mutters. "Or maybe someone hired him, maybe – "

But he doesn't pay attention to her words – watches her closely instead. How her eyebrows are tightly knit together, her movements jerky and angry. How she picks up the glass in an abrupt gesture. How the water surface ripples, conveying the minute shaking of her hands.

And he grins. Because suddenly he knows what to do.

"So, how are we going to do this? What's your plan?" she asks, taking a gulp of water and slamming the glass on the desk.

Some water escapes over the edge, drenches stray paperwork. She doesn't seem to care.

"What makes you think I have a plan?"

"You always have a plan," she answers, rolling her eyes.

He keeps looking at her with a critical eye. Her posture makes it obvious how tightly wound she is – shoulders thrown back, neck curved ahead like a bull about to charge, and frowning like the world is about to end.

He smiles. The world _is_ about to end.

For Carmen, that is.

"How would you rate your acting skills?"

"What's it have to do with anything?"

"I'm assuming you still want to do this yourself. Right?"

"I won't let anyone else catch him. He's _mine_."

He raises his eyebrows at the familiar formulation but she doesn't notice, too caught up in her pacing. Her strides quicken, the frown on her face deepens further. She's getting agitated, working herself into a frenzy.

 _Perfect for a first test._

"Right. I'll explain. Let's sit first."

"I don't feel like sitting right now, Jane."

"You're giving me a stiff neck pacing back and forth like that."

" _How can you be so calm about this?_ "

"Because _someone_ needs to keep a clear head around here, Lisbon."

She stops and glares, then downs her water to the last drop. Her knuckles are white on the glass. For a moment he fears it will shatter between her fingers – but then she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. When she looks at him again, her face is crisp with repressed anger but her stance is more natural – not _calm_ , but focussed. Without another word, she walks to the couch and sits on its edge, then raises her eyebrows expectantly.

An impressive display of self-control.

 _This could really work._

"Well?"

He sits on the footrest, facing her.

"We need to trick Carmen into thinking he got to you. We have to play this like a long con. Make him believe what he wants to believe so that he lets his guard down – "

" – and reveals himself as the murderous son of a bitch he really is. I _know_ , Jane," she growls. " _How_ do we do that?"

He grins.

"You're not gonna like it."

She gives him a pointed look. He shrugs.

"Simple. You'll have a meltdown."

She blinks, then frowns in confusion.

"A – _meltdown?_ "

"Think about it, Lisbon. How would you react if you didn't know he was responsible?"

She hesitates.

"Not well. I think."

" _Not well_ ," he repeats. "Quite an understatement. Let's summarise what's going on, yes? An old convict of yours turns up dead. They find your fingerprint on the murder weapon. Bosco asks uncomfortable questions, Minelli looks at you with suspicion. You're not officially being accused of murder, but the way they treat you, it's just as if they did. Right?"

She nods, lightly chewing on her lip, fists tight on her knees.

"Problem is, you don't remember what you did on the night McTier died. When you woke up Wednesday morning, there was a mess in your kitchen. So you start thinking – maybe you were drinking, maybe you blacked it out? You dismiss the thought at first, but it keeps nagging you whether you want it or not. Maybe you _did_ kill McTier? To quiet your own doubts you ask to take a polygraph, which you fail of course – "

" _Why_ would I fail it?"

"Because you'll never casually admit you don't remember what happened that night, which means you will lie about it. And you're too honest to be a good liar."

"I can be a good liar!"

"If I can catch your lies as easily as I do, don't you think the polygraph will, too?"

She nods curtly – doesn't look happy about it. He keeps talking, lazily moving a hand in the air as he piles possible events at her feet.

"So they take you off duty, confiscate your badge, your gun – and suddenly your whole life is unravelling around you. Your co-workers start wondering. Maybe they didn't know you as well as they thought? They start looking at you with suspicion and as they do, you start losing all that hard-won respect."

She looks distinctively green around the gills now, and he feels a little guilty for invoking the worst possible scenario.

But not enough to stop.

"Let's not forget about your shrink, who's probably trying to convince you of your own guilt. Has he been doing that already?"

"Doing what?"

"Bringing up uncomfortable subjects that have nothing to do with the shooting. Throwing doubt. Sapping your self-confidence."

She opens her mouth as if to protest, but then closes it without a word and averts her eyes, betraying the obvious answer.

 _Of course he has._

"So when he has you good and convinced you really were responsible for McTier's death, you do the only thing that will allow you to live with yourself – you confess. They offer you an insanity plea deal, courtesy of your long and stellar career in law enforcement. at this point you'd hesitate a bit more because a stint in a criminal hospital isn't a great prospect, whether it's while you're in there or after, when you're out. But better that than life in prison or even the needle, right?"

"Come on!" she huffs anxiously. "They don't have anything substantial to convict me, I'd never – "

"Lisbon, they already have your fingerprint on the murder weapon and no alibi for the night of the murder."

"That's not enough to get a conviction."

"Of course not, we both know that. How much do you wanna bet Carmen knows it too?"

She stays silent. He sighs.

"You need to think like a criminal here. If you were trying to frame someone, wouldn't you make sure the case is air-tight?"

"So – what, you think this is just the beginning? That they'll have damning evidence showing up?"

"I'm absolutely sure of it. If it gets far enough to go to court, something else will come up. A witness, probably. Someone paid to say they saw you in that alley with McTier, heard the shots, something like that."

She gets up, then sits back down, wringing her hands with agitation.

"But – that's – they know me! Nobody in the CBI would believe I did it. I mean," she says, then swallows painfully. "I mean, it would – _could_ never get that bad. Right?"

 _Is it that bad right now?_ ask her pleading eyes.

"There's no way to know for sure," he says in quiet tones. "But, Lisbon – it doesn't matter what would or wouldn't happen. It's what _needs_ to happen."

"Wait. What?"

"We need to _make_ it happen – the beginning of that scenario, at least. You need to look like you're in a desperate situation, so desperate you'll listen to anything Carmen says. You being vulnerable will make him overconfident, and that's when he'll start making mistakes. That's how we can catch him."

"You – want me to play a role that will make things worse for myself."

"Exactly."

She stays silent for a few seconds, face blank – unreadable. Then she gets up, walks to the window and stares outside, fists clenching and unclenching convulsively. The dying sun paints her conflicted features in shadows and red shades. He walks to her slowly, touches two fingers to her elbow, gauging her reaction. When she flinches, he makes sure to leave at least two feet between them – letting her have some personal space, but staying close enough that she cannot pretend she isn't hearing him.

"There won't be lasting consequences to this," he says, voice low. "You'll come out on top – how could you not? They'll see you as someone ready to go to great lengths to put bad guys behind bars."

"That's _if_ we catch him."

"Of course we'll catch him. In no time you'll be back in the office, heading the best unit the CBI ever had. And you know Minelli will keep your file clean. He couldn't live down the embarrassment of being conned with everyone else – besides, he likes you too much."

"That's not what I'm worried about."

"Then _what_ are you worried about?"

She close her eyes, throat bobbing up and down, and leans her forehead against the glass for a short moment. When she turns back to him, he's shocked by the naked fear he reads on her face.

"I can't do this," she says.

"Of course you can."

"No, I can't! You asked about my acting skills? They're _crap_ , Jane. I messed up the only undercover assignment I was ever given because I couldn't act to save my life."

"That's because they tried to assign you to _Vice_ ," he answers, rolling his eyes. "Of course you failed to be convincing as a street hooker."

"How do you – _did you read my file?!_ "

He waves a hand in the air impatiently.

"Never mind that! My point is, this will be a lot easier than an undercover assignment because you won't be playing a role. You'll be acting as _yourself_."

"What if I can't convince Carmen? What if I try and he doesn't buy it? It'll only make things worse!"

"You won't make things worse. Carmen will believe you because you're going to give him exactly what he wants. He'll _expect_ you to have a meltdown – so when you _do_ , he won't feel the need to look further into it because everything will appear to go exactly as he planned it."

She doesn't answer, turns away from him.

"Lisbon. I _know_ you can do this."

Outside, the last rays of sunlight disappear from the sky. Night falls, blue shadows darkening the living room. A small part of his mind startles, remembers gunshots and burning hands and the scent of blood, nearly derails him from their conversation. But then she moves away from the window and turns the lights on – and it's easier to forget about _that_ when he can see her. When he can hear every breath she takes, when the jumping pulse on her neck is visible enough to quiet those invasive thoughts.

 _She's alive and well. And she will remain so. Whatever it takes, I'll make sure of it.  
_

He pulls the curtains over the window to stop himself from reaching for her pulse – now is not the time. She's still afraid. He needs to be the strong one here, someone she can lean on until she gets her bearings back.

"I _know_ you can trick Carmen," he repeats, taking a deep breath. "I'm sure of it. We'll catch him. Everything will turn out fine," he adds. "I promise."

"You can't promise that!"

She crosses her arms over her chest again, refuses to meet his eyes – until he walks to her side and puts both hands on her shoulders. Then she looks up, all dark widened eyes and fearful features.

" _I promise_ ," he repeats, voices tones nothing but certainty. "I'll teach you how to trick him and you'll do it brilliantly. And _if_ it doesn't work, me and the team, we'll find a way to catch him and clear you. We won't leave you in the lurch, Lisbon."

He sees the moment fear slowly trickles out of her, leaving tiredness in its wake. Tiredness, but also determination. She takes a short breath as he steps back, then nods.

"Okay," she says, a seed of her fearless self back where it belongs. "Okay. Then – show me. Show me how to do this."

He grins.

* * *

"My father used to have black-outs when he drank. Is it possible that – "

"Stop. Your voice tone is blank. Start over, a little more emotion."

"M – my father used t – to have black-outs when – when he – "

"No, _no!_ I said _emotion_ , not stuttering! Start over."

"My father – he used to have black-outs when he drank. Is – is it – "

"Lisbon, stop. Just – _stop_."

" _Again?_ What's wrong _this_ time?" she growls.

Jane gets up from the couch, rubs his chin, all the while staring hard at her – making her uncomfortable. She shivers, clenches her teeth.

"The way you talk about it, it's too matter-of-fact. It's like you're playing a role without – without _feeling_ it."

"Isn't that supposed to be the point of _acting?_ "

"Of course not. I told you, you need to draw on your own emotions to make it real. How are people supposed to believe you if you don't believe it yourself?"

"And how exactly am I supposed to do that, huh?"

"Well – what does it make you feel, that your father used to have black-outs?"

Anger and sadness and love and a whole mess of other unidentifiable, conflicted emotions bubble up inside, threatening to choke her up. She pushes it back down out of habit.

"Nothing. I don't care. It's in the past."

He raises his eyebrows.

" _Nothing?_ Really?"

"No! I mean – I don't _know_ ," she shrugs – a jerky, angry gesture.

"Yes you do. You felt it just now."

"No I didn't."

"Yes you _did_. And you pushed it away."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she bites out, turning her back on him.

The full weight of his stare settles on the back of her neck and she shivers again, freezing, unable to warm herself up. She closes her eyes, willing herself to remain calm – willing memories and feelings away, far away from her mind. When Jane's fingers brush against the small of her back, she nearly jumps out of her skin.

"Don't do that! Don't – "

 _Don't hit me._

He blinks owlishly, both hands raised in an appeasing gesture. Must have seen the thought on her face, she thinks. Damn his reading people skills. Her name flashes silver on his palm, reminding her of _here_ and _now_ , and she swallows painfully.

"Sorry. I just – I don't need comfort."

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine."

She looks away. Forces her muscles to relax, her teeth to stop chattering. Only marginally succeeds. For a second she wishes she was the kind of person who could draw comfort from other people's touch.

If she asked, she's sure Jane would open his arms to her right now.

She won't ask.

"We've been practising for hours. It's getting late," he says, voice low. "Lisbon, if this is too hard on you, we don't have to do it. We can find another way."

For a small moment she hesitates – the temptation to give up comes so sweet and strong. But she's never been one to take the easy way out.

 _And Carmen is mine to arrest._

"No. I can do this. Just – give me a minute, will you?"

She doesn't wait for his answer – takes shelter in the kitchen, where she fills the water container of the coffee machine. Her hands are freezing, shaking with suppressed emotion – even holding them under hot tap water for a while doesn't warm them up.

 _A steaming mug should work though._

At least that's what she's hoping for.

"You never really talked about what happened to you. Haven't you?" asks Jane, leaning against the door frame. "At least not to anyone who didn't already know."

"I talked about it. Had to answer extensive questions about my family when I was hired at the CBI."

"Yes. But you gave them a list of facts, as if it happened to someone else. You never talked about how it makes you feel. Not even to yourself."

"So?"

She turns the coffee machine on. The wonderfully dark, rich scent of a good quality brew – the only real luxury she allows herself – fills the room.

"Well, that's why the emotion is so hard to access now. You need to let it out – acknowledge what happened to you."

"I'm trying to get rid of a shrink, Jane. I don't need another one."

"It's easier to run away, I know. But if you keep running, you'll never be able to reach the depth of emotion you need to fool Carmen."

She stares.

"So you want me to – what, talk about my feelings?"

"It _would_ make you feel better – "

"I doubt that."

" – but no. What I want you to do is pretend I'm Dr. Carmen and convince me you're afraid of turning like your father. What you tell me, it doesn't _have_ to be real. But it must _feel_ real to you, and that's easier to do with real memories. So tell me something that happened back then. Something that would explain why you'd be having doubts now."

She lets out a short, incredulous laugh. He raises his eyebrows.

"Come _on_ , Lisbon. Prove me you can reach deep enough to fool him."

"I'm not about to tell you my childhood sob stories!"

"Well, you'll have to tell Carmen, right? Wouldn't it be easier to start with someone you trust?"

"Who said I trusted you?"

He pauses, and she nearly misses the flash of hurt in his eyes. She bites the inside of her cheek, guilt churning her stomach. But his face smoothes over so quickly, and it's so much easier to tell herself she imagined it.

" _You_ did, Lisbon," says Jane quietly. "And even if you hadn't said the words – but you _did_ – it was implied. If you didn't trust me, I wouldn't have been able to hypnotise you."

The coffee machine beeps. She breaks their staring contest to fill her mug, then burns her tongue taking a sip too quickly. But it doesn't matter. Physical pain was always easier to deal with.

He sighs as she turns back her attention to him.

"Listen," he says. "Either we do this properly or we find another way. How you want to catch him, trick him yourself or not, it doesn't matter to me as long as he's in lock-down and far away from y – from _the CBI_ by the end of the week."

He interrupts himself, licks his lips nervously.

"So right now, I'm going back to the living room. I'll be waiting for you on the couch. Come find me when you decide what you want to do."

 _The nerves!_

Throwing a fit against him is so tempting – and throwing him _out_ , even more. Yelling at him always made her feel better. But if she does, tomorrow or soon enough, they'll call her to take a polygraph – which she _will_ fail, Jane was right about that.

 _What if I don't lie?_

She discards the idea as quickly as it came. Being unable to remember her whereabouts on the night of the murder would be worse than lying. At least if she lies, she has a small chance of fooling the polygraph. If she doesn't, they'll immediately suspend her because of the drugs, she'll be the sole focus of their investigation, and then –

– then the last shred of control she has over her life will slip from her fingers, and she'll have to rely solely on Jane to clear her name and close the case.

 _Again._

She scrunches her eyes tight.

 _I need to be part of this. No matter how hard. I_ need _to do this myself._

One glance into the living room and she finds him sitting quietly, legs crossed at the knee, looking up at the ceiling. She empties her cup of coffee – _liquid courage_ – drops the mug in the sink and walks to him. Nearly freezes halfway through when she meets his intense, focussed gaze. Then forces herself to take one step after the other, again and again, until she reaches the footrest he was sitting on earlier.

She sits down without a word. Jane straightens his back but stays silent, waiting for her to talk first. She takes a deep breath, then swallows convulsively – her throat feels too tight all of a sudden, and her mouth is dry.

 _Reach deep enough to fool him. Okay._

"When I was 16 – " she starts.

Her voice cracks. She tries again.

"When I was 16, my father got suspended for a week. Everyone knew he was an alcoholic since mum died, it was an open secret. But he was always – high-functioning. Never missed a day of work, always did his job right. Saved lives. Put out fires. But that day he showed up half-drunk at the fire station and – I never knew what happened, if he put his partner in danger or if he failed to save someone because he was too out of it, but my point is – suspension. No more work for a week."

The familiar bubble of emotions drifts up inside her again. Her throat hurts. Nearly too much to talk.

She keeps going.

"He didn't tell us about it, he just – he pretended he'd go to work but really went to the liquor store, bought as many bottles as he could carry and started binge-drinking in the middle of the afternoon. By the time we came back from school, he was usually – _wasted_. Passed out on the couch."

She clenches her fists on her thighs, clears her voice.

"Money was always tight because he drank half his pay checks. So after a few days he switched from hard liquor to beer so he could make his cash supply last longer. Brought back dozens and dozens of bottles home. Drank ten, twelve a day. Maybe more, I don't know."

Her eyes are burning. But unlike all her previous attempts, he hasn't stopped her yet.

 _This is good. Right?_

"Tommy was 15 – already taller than I was. Responsible. Better at watching out for his brothers than dad was. A _good_ kid. But just a kid. So one afternoon, while dad was sleeping off the booze, he stole a beer. There were so much alcohol lying around, he never thought he'd get caught. It was just a dumb kid move."

Shivers climb up and down her legs, her arms, her spine, and she isn't sure she can stop her teeth from chattering much longer. She wishes she didn't drink her coffee so quickly.

"When Jimmy and I got back from football practice an hour later, dad was up again, drinking and watching TV. We knew to be quiet when he drank, keep to ourselves, otherwise things could get – nasty. But everything was fine that night. We did homework, I cooked dinner, dad kept drinking of course but didn't say a word when I gave him his mac'n'cheese, ate everything without complaint. For a moment it almost felt – normal. _Good_. You know?"

 _I can't do this. I can't._

But one look at Jane's face – attentive, listening – and she knows she will.

She must.

"After dinner I sent the boys to their rooms, stayed downstairs to clean a bit. The house was a mess. Empty bottles everywhere. I picked up a few of them, threw them in the trash bin outside. When I came back, dad was up, pacing like a – like a wild animal. Asked what I had done with his beer. He grabbed my arm, started to yell – "

Tears threaten to spill over her cheeks. She wipes her eyes angrily, opens her mouth but her throat is so tight, no sound passes through.

"Then Tommy came down to see what was going on," she croaks painfully, trying to clear her voice. "Dad smelled alcohol on his breath and after that, everything went to hell. He started _hitting_ him – like he was possessed or something. His face was _so red_ , contorted in rage, like it wasn't even him anymore. I tried to stop it but I – he was just too strong. Pushed me out of the way, kept – hitting and – and _kicking_. Tommy was already on the floor. Couldn't move anymore. Couldn't even defend himself."

Her brother's bruised, battered body flashes before her eyes. She flinches, blinks away tears as best as she can, then stands up – if she is to keep talking about this, she needs to _move_.

"Stan and Jimmy were looking down from upstairs. They were both terrified, but Stan, he – he was an impulsive kid, I could see him getting worked out. I knew if I didn't do something to stop it, he'd get in the way and dad would kill them both. So – "

Jane's eyes follow her as she takes a few uneasy steps forward, turns her back on him, then faces him again – the closest to pacing she'll allow herself.

" – so I locked my arms around his neck. Cut out his air supply until he passed out. Didn't know what I was doing, thought I killed him at first – _anyway_. Stan called an ambulance. Dad woke up just as the medics came in."

Her voice cracks again, both from pain and relief.

 _Nearly done. Just a little more._

"He didn't remember a thing. The whole way to the hospital, he couldn't believe it was him who did that to Tommy."

Silence falls on the living room. She stands still, eyes cast downward to avoid his searching gaze, and stays silent – lost in memories. Then a warm hand brushes against hers and she jumps, startled by Jane's sudden proximity.

"Hey. You okay?"

"I'm _fine_ ," she answers, annoyed. "Told you not to do that."

"You didn't answer when I called your name."

She pinches her lips, looks away.

"I'm fine."

"Alright."

He looks like he's about to say something, then shakes his head.

"Well, congratulations! That was _much_ better," he grins.

She blinks, then chuckles unwittingly – trust Jane to keep a one-track mind. She nearly forgot about their goal.

When she looks at him, however, some part of her wonders if he did too.

His smile looks – _forced_.

"Okay. You forgot to ask if it was possible you killed McTier, but we'll work on that. Think you can reach that depth of emotion again?"

"I think so. Yeah."

"Good. I don't think you need to give that many details to Carmen – just keep that same tension high, and when – "

He prattles on, offering tips and pointers for a better "performance", and she knows she should listen but it's hard to pay attention – emotional exhaustion is blanketing her mind, leaving her nothing but warm relief and a vague sense of satisfaction.

She _can_ do this.

And she _will_.

* * *

It's been ages since the last time he organised such an elaborate con.

He purposely avoided thinking about it too much – at least as long as Lisbon and he were still in the planning and coaching stage. But now that they spread their first pawns on the chessboard, now that they started taking action, now that all is left for him to do is wait for news on the couch, he finds himself with nothing but time to think about it.

It's exhilarating.

Long cons were always his favourites. Careful planning, delicate nudges to move the mark along in the right direction, and more than anything, _patience_. Patience is key. Patience he lacks in every other area of his life, but not in this one – he was always very aware that the time it takes, no matter how long that is, allows him better control of the situation.

It's exhilarating, but also new – and somewhat terrifying.

His last partner in crime was Angela. It's hard not to compare this partnership to the last. The part Lisbon has to play would have been child's game for his wife – knowledge that brings him both excruciating guilt and sweet melancholia. Their double act on the streets, back in Truckee – he still remembers the taste of summer and dreams, the last shreds of childhood before the long winter that knocked reality back into them. Every act after that has been a one-man show.

The tricks and games he plays to catch killers with the CBI don't count, of course – most of the time the team isn't aware of his plans, and that is when they even _know_ he has a plan in motion. He always runs most of the show on his own.

But not this time.

This time his part is played from the shadows. This time _he_ is assistant to the partner who takes the spotlight, and he cannot remember the last time something like that happened. With his father perhaps. Or maybe Sam – she was always very keen on using him to attract townies to her astrology boot.

But _that_ was a lifetime ago – when he was still learning to read people.

 _This_ is nearly like training an apprentice.

He chuckles softly to himself.

 _Lisbon is anything but apprentice material. She's actually the worst possible choice I could come up with._

And yet, her performance that night was _very_ nearly flawless.

He isn't quite sure what to make of it.

" – failed the polygraph!"

" _What?_ How is that even possible?"

Rigsby's and Van Pelt's hushed, alarmed voices bring him back to reality. He sits up, concealing a joyless smile.

 _Finally._

"Lisbon failed the polygraph?" he asks – just to make sure. "Where is she now?"

Rigsby shakes his head.

"Don't know. Minelli called Cho to his office, I think he's asking him to take over. She got _suspended_ , can you believe that? Over polygraph results!"

"That's horrible! Why aren't we telling everyone she's been framed?"

"Well, we don't have proof yet, don't we?" he points out.

Van Pelt blushes.

"Hey. We're working on that," frowns Rigsby. "I'm still waiting to hear from my guy in Pelican Bay, nothing else panned out."

"Yeah! And Bosco keeps road-blocking us. It's like he doesn't _want_ Lisbon to be cleared."

 _Crap. That cockroach covered his tracks too well. Time to forget about subtlety._

"Have you thought about looking for someone inside the CBI?" he asks, keeping his voice and expression neutral. "I'm pretty sure McTier's death is merely a by-product – a convenient prop to frame Lisbon. _She_ is the intended victim – someone wants her out of the way, and it's probably not over a family dispute."

Rigsby and Van Pelt exchange a look.

 _The idea isn't new to them? Interesting._

"Yeah, about that," says Rigsby. "We talked about it earlier today.

"It's pretty weird, Jane, but we thought – well, we thought that maybe _Bosco_ – "

"It's not Bosco," he interrupts.

"Really?"

"Nope. Not Bosco. It's someone else inside the CBI. Either someone who profits from framing Lisbon, or someone who was hired to get her out of the way."

"Well, how do you know that's not Bosco?" asks Van Pelt. "I mean, he's the one who pushed for the polygraph. Don't you think it's weird that – "

She keeps talking, but he stops paying attention when Lisbon walks across the bullpen without looking at anybody. The dark expression on her face is unlike any he's seen before.

 _Something's wrong._

Brood and gloom and impending doom he knows well, but _this_ – this is something else. She takes shelter in her office, closing both doors and blinds. And if that isn't an invitation to investigate, he doesn't know what is.

He stands up, interrupting Van Pelt's monologue.

"Hold that thought."

"Jane?"

"Keep working the case. See you later," he says quickly. "Oh, and guys?" he adds, looking over his shoulder. "Look for someone who spent a lot of time with Lisbon lately. That's not Bosco."

Leaving them flabbergasted, he slips into her office, closing the door behind him. Then frowns. She stands in the middle of the room, back turned and looking down, hands hidden in her pockets. The air is thick with tension.

"Lisbon?"

He reaches for her shoulder but stops himself just in time. Something in the way she holds herself gives off the impression she'd bite any hand coming too close.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

Her strangled voice sounds anything but fine.

"Hey. What happened?"

She turns to him. Her face is blank, every muscle tight, carefully controlled, fixed into a studied lack of expression – and she could probably fool him if he didn't know her so well. But the tension in her jaw betrays her unwillingness to cry in front of him.

"I'm _fine_ , Jane. Go away."

Her voice is _raw_ , fraught with rage and anguish and dismay and betrayal. He flinches as if he had been slapped.

It doesn't take much more to guess what happened.

"You saw Minelli, didn't you?"

Her face contorts.

"You tried to tell him you were being framed?"

"He wouldn't even _listen_ to me."

Shaking hands flit around the room, reaching for but not quite touching objects all over her office, until she grabs a pillow off the couch and throws it across the room. It hits the wall and bounces back, coming to a stop at her feet. She growls and he takes a step back, gives her as much personal space as possible.

She never used him as target practice before, but he has no plans to let her start now.

" _Fifteen years_ in law enforcement, Jane! _Eight_ of them working for the CBI. Shouldn't I get at least benefit of doubt?"

She kicks the pillow. He ducks just in time – it flies over his shoulder harmlessly, slides across the room, and ends its course under the desk.

"You're right. It's unfair."

" _Damn right it is!_ "

"But you know why Minelli is reacting that way, don't you?"

" _I don't care!_ "

"Of course you care. That's why you're so angry right now. That's why you're hurt."

She growls again but there's a crack there, vulnerability hiding under the anger. She'd be dismayed by how clearly he sees it.

 _Then again, she probably knows._

"He's overreacting because he sees you as a daughter."

She crosses her arms over her chest in a defensive gesture.

"So – what? That's an excuse to treat me like a criminal? I _failed a polygraph_ , I didn't take hostages in the middle of the bullpen!"

He smiles inwardly at her lack of denial.

 _That relationship always went both ways._

"Not at all. But it explains why he feels personally betrayed by your possible involvement in McTier's murder."

Her pale, tired features look defeated, the fight leaking out of her like water out of a broken glass.

"I still think it's unfair," she mutters, letting herself fall on the couch.

"Yes. It is. But that's what we wanted to achieve, isn't it? Things are going exactly as expected."

She doesn't answer, rubs her face on her sleeves. He gently bumps his knee against hers when she makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sniffle.

"He'll come around, Lisbon. You'll see. He'll be so sorry when we arrest Carmen, he'll probably give you a raise. Or maybe extra vacation. Not that you need it with all the accrued leave you're already entitled to."

Her soft, muffled snort reassures him somewhat. When she uncovers her face, her eyes are red but the spark of annoyance there – _annoyance_ , not murderous rage – is utterly familiar.

" _Damn_ it! I'm so tired of being an emotional wreck."

"It's understandable. And you're still coming down from the drugs."

"It's been a week!"

"Come on. We both know it will take a lot longer than a week to flush them out of your system. Give it a few more days at least before starting to complain."

"Oh, just – _can it_ , will you? And stop _smiling_ at me like that! There's nothing funny about any of this."

His grin widens. She nearly pouts, then breaks into a reluctant smile.

 _Crisis averted._

"Did you see Carmen yet?" he asks, beckoning her up.

"Have to report to admin first."

Her throat bobs up and down.

"Minelli relieved me of duty, so they'll take my badge."

"Guns?"

"Service weapon too, yeah. I get to keep the others."

"Well, that's slightly worrying."

"Why?"

"You're a crazy, violent woman with an access to firearms. Why _wouldn't_ I be worried?" he grins.

She swats his arm.

"Shut up!"

"See?"

"You better hope Carmen sees it the same way. Don't want to be doing all of this for nothing."

"Oh, I can assure you he will. We'll make sure of it."

Her answering smile is full of teeth – a seething desire for revenge he understands very well.

"Alright," she says, getting up. "Better do this now."

"Yep. Just like a band-aid. Quickly and it'll hurt, but then it's over."

She rolls her eyes, but he can see how anxious she still is. So he reaches up, gives a small pat between her shoulder blades, then lets his hand slide down, from the back of her neck to the small of her back – just as he did when she was under hypnosis. And a part of her must remember the comfort it brought her then, because something realigns itself in her eyes and she slightly – _so very slightly_ – arches into his touch.

"You got this, Lisbon. It's okay."

"No, it's not okay! _Nothing_ is okay," she answers, taking a deep breath. "But I'll catch the son of a bitch," she adds fiercely. "And _then_ it will be."

"That's the spirit," he grins.

She flashes a quick smile, then walks to the door. He calls to her before she opens it.

"Where can I find you after you see Carmen?"

"Processing will take at least an hour," she answers, checking her phone. "Do you think he'll have time to see me this afternoon?"

"Of course he will. You're his priority right now, he'll want things to go smoothly, hear about any development before anyone else. He'll cancel any appointment he has to see you."

"Then I should be back before the end of the day."

She bites her lip.

"Minelli will expect me to clear my office as soon as possible for – the next lead agent, whoever that is."

"I heard from Rigsby he called Cho to his office," he offers.

"Yeah. Well, anyway," she says, with an impatient hand gesture. "I'll be back in a few hours."

He nods.

"Remember what you're supposed to do?"

"Yes."

"Don't give him too many details. Keep it simple."

"I know."

"And reach deep. Don't be ashamed to cry."

"I _know_ , Jane."

"And don't forget to tell him – "

" _I know!_ We practised every night this week. What's with the mother hen act?" she laughs, half amusement, half irritation.

"It's just – " he hesitates.

For a second he considers lying, pretending he's worried about the outcome, but then he reigns in the urge. He doesn't want to sap her self-confidence – one false step and Carmen will get suspicious. Besides, she's nervous enough as it is.

" – I've never had an apprentice before."

She blinks.

"This is all very new to me, so I'm feeling a little _coy_. You know?" he adds with a lopsided grin – doing his best to turn it into a joke.

He can see it fails as soon as he utters the words. There's a small, shy smile hiding in the corners of her mouth.

"That's how you see me? Your apprentice?"

He shrugs, a little self-conscious.

"You're running the show this time, not me."

"Well – do you trust me to do this right?"

He lets his gaze linger on her deceptively small form. Takes in the determined posture, the tightly wound shoulders. The fiery glint in her eyes. Then nods once, sharply.

"I wouldn't let you go out there if I didn't."

The shy smile he glimpsed earlier blooms on her lips. She doesn't answer, just holds his gaze. On her face he reads a bit of confusion, a bit of amusement, and a little bit of something that looks uncomfortably like affection.

Something that makes him feel awkward and out of place.

A connection he's not ready to acknowledge.

"Besides, I'm not the one with trust issues," he adds, grinning – breaking the moment.

Predictably, she rolls her eyes.

"Alright, enough messing around. See you later," she says, slipping out.

He stays behind, watches her body language transform as she passes through the bullpen, going from headstrong to fearful in barely a few steps. Then he picks up the pillow from under the desk, brushes off the dust clinging to the fabric, and puts it back in its place before strolling out.

Claiming his usual seat on the couch, he picks up a book to hide the smile he's unable to keep off his lips.

 _Yeah. You got this._

* * *

 **Next chapter might take some time to write.**

As you probably know, I currently have another unfinished story called Eighteen Hours. In the next few weeks I'll go back and forth between them until Eighteen Hours is completed, which will understandably slow down the writing process of both stories. I'll do my best not to take another five months before "Red Badge part 3", but it will take time so please be patient.

On an unrelated note, how would you feel about a title change for Kindred?


	13. Interlude: Red Badge III

_**Disclaimer: As you probably guessed by now, this show and its characters aren't mine.**_

 **A/N:** This conclusion to the Red Badge arc has been a long time coming (parts of this chapter were written early July 2017, believe it or not). Thank you for your patience, hopefully this makes up for the horrific wait.

It's September 23! **Happy 10th Anniversary** , fellow Mentalist fans! We organised a Creative Fest this year on Twitter but since I got hit by a terrible bout of writer's block these past 6 months, I hope you don't mind me cheating a little and using this chapter as my contribution.

The prompt I chose to include was **#134: "The plan was just a night home on the couch."** Whoever gave it, I hope you'll enjoy its inclusion as some sort of Easter egg.

 **Warnings:** Canon themes of suicide (talking about it, character faking distress that is implied to lead to suicide). If this triggers you, please stay safe.

 **Spoilers:** Some dialogues are taken directly from 2.03 "Red Badge".

* * *

 **Kindred**  
 **Interlude: Red Badge III**

"Have you lost all common sense?!"

"What? It's a natural progression!"

"Breaking a window in my office is _a natural progression?!_ "

"Well, look at the bright side. Direct communication with the team without having to get up from your desk – at least until they replace the glass."

" _Funny_. What about Bosco? I can't just pick up a fight with him like that!"

"Why not?"

"It may come as a surprise to you, but I kind of expect to keep a good working relationship with my colleagues after this!"

"Meh, don't worry about Bosco. He'll forgive you – he's always asking for a fight anyway, you'll just give him what he wants."

She growls. He grins up at her from the couch. The urge to swat his feet off the armrest is strong – but she reigns it in out of habit and keeps storing random knick-knacks in a cardboard box.

Clearing her office.

Well, not _her_ office anymore, she amends to herself – doing her best to ignore the pang in her chest. Thankfully, Jane's infernal cheer provides her with the perfect distraction.

"You're having way too much fun planning this."

"Don't tell me you didn't have fun messing with your shrink for an hour," he says, giving her a pointed look.

She rolls her eyes, but cannot completely hide her smile.

"I was in there less than 20 minutes. That's hardly an hour."

"Meh. Semantics. You enjoyed yourself! There's no shame in that."

She hesitates.

"Alright. I kinda did," she admits reluctantly. "Some parts, at least."

"See?"

"But that's not the point!"

"Of course it's the point," he chuckles. "Pretending you're depressed enough to think about killing yourself, pretending you're angry enough to break a window – it's the same thing, only different in scale."

She crosses her arms, unconvinced. Jane sits up with a sigh, hands on his thighs.

"Shouldn't we be past this already? You have to sell it, Lisbon. People see you getting angry with me all the time, do you really think a little bit of yelling is gonna cut it?"

Then he grins.

"Besides, it'll be loads of fun. Think of all the stress you'll exorcise!"

 _Nothing Jane suggests should ever be that tempting_.

"Maybe. But there's a huge difference between being sad and throwing things at everybody's head! It's my career at stakes, Jane. How much time do you think it'll take me to undo the fallouts of an hysterical breakdown in the middle of the bullpen?"

"It's an _act_ , Lisbon, there won't _be_ any fallouts. You'll be cleared by tonight!"

She wants to argue further, explain her concerns – try to make him understand that the stigma attached to that kind of act will never completely die down, even after they establish it was a con. That the only way to survive in a traditionally male career like law enforcement is to be above reproach at all time – because a woman's tears are forgivable but a woman's anger isn't, and how does he actually expect people to act normally around her after bearing witness to that kind of scene?

How does he expect _her_ to act normally around them, when everything is over?

But a knock on the door interrupts them just as she opens her mouth – and she glares at Jane as if he was responsible for it, because what else can she do?

 _Damn the man and his infuriating schemes._

"Boss," says Cho, poking his head in. "We have a lead."

Rigsby and Van Pelt are standing behind him, the same focussed expression painted over all three of their faces. She bites her lip.

"Come in."

They do, closing the door behind them. Jane stands up, suddenly all business and no play – and she leans her hip against the desk, arms crossed over her chest, trying to keep up the game of desperation and vulnerability.

They've been doing this for less than a week. She's already so tired of pretending.

"My guy in Pelican Bay came through," starts Rigsby. "A few years ago, McTier was cell mate with a guy named David Charles."

"The same David Charles who turns out to be the brother of McTier's girlfriend," adds Van Pelt.

"Rigsby and I went to see him. Found out he's been paid ten grand to lure McTier in the alley," finishes Cho.

"Ten _grand?_ " she says, blinking – completely dropping the act in her surprise.

"We think it was a hit from someone with a lot of cash lying around. That's not anyone on government pay."

"We just need to track down the money, find out where it came from. I can do the computer work!"

"That way we'd find who the real killer is. Clear up your name, get you back at the head of the unit. Cho's doing a good job, but – no offence, Cho – he's not _you_."

"Wait," she says. " _Hang on_. Bosco's the one in charge, why did you come to me? I'm on suspension, I'm not even supposed to – and why the hell are you even _working_ the case? We were given express orders to drop it!"

Van Pelt glances at Jane. Cho and Rigsby exchange a look. She closes her eyes, pinches the bridge of her nose.

"Because that's the meaning of a team, Lisbon," says Jane. "We don't bail on one of our own."

"Yeah."

"What he said."

"And we figured you're the only one who can convince Jane to stop being cryptic and just tell us where to look," adds Van Pelt. "That way we'll stop losing our time on leads that won't pan out and clear your name as quickly as possible."

She frowns. Jane is smiling sheepishly, exactly like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and a terrible suspicion swells in her mind.

" _What_ did you tell them?" she asks, anger, panic, and betrayal slowly rising inside.

"Nothing they didn't already figure out."

"Jane, I _told_ you – "

"You're being framed, right?" interrupts Cho. "That's all we know. Frankly, boss, it wasn't that hard to guess – even if you _did_ kill a guy, you'd never be stupid enough to call in an anonymous tip to your own unit."

"Or to drop the murder weapon in a trash can near the crime scene, especially with your fingerprints still on it," adds Van Pelt.

"You're not a murderer, boss. You'd never kill in cold blood, we all know that," says Rigsby.

Jane just stands behind them, quietly smiling, rocking lightly on his feet. But the intensity in his gaze gives credence to their words – acting as the binding agent holding them together, or maybe the springboard propelling them forward.

 _They're taking a stand._

The realisation nearly takes her breath away. It's not the first time they do – she saw them hold their ground on several occasions in the past year. But every time they did, she was right there beside them, banding together to help _Jane_.

Not _her_.

Minelli's reaction to her failing the polygraph stung – made her feel isolated and undeserving, discarded on a flimsy excuse despite years of hard work. But she isn't without allies, after all. And suddenly finding herself the recipient of that kind of loyalty is –

– _overwhelming._

Her team – _hers!_ – looks uneasy as she clears her voice, blinks too many times. For a second she wonders just how much to tell them. There's no doubt she needs to tell them _something_ – Rigsby's earnest eyes, Van Pelt's determined expression, and Cho's worried frown take the decision out of her hands – but must she really go over all the embarrassing parts?

A glance towards Jane shows him to be amused. Of course he'd read her hesitation and guess what it's about. _Damn him_. She glares. He raises his eyebrows.

 _It'll all come out in court anyway_ , he told her just a few days ago.

"Okay," she says, clearing her voice a second time. "Okay, fine."

They stay quiet as she and Jane take turns explaining about the drugs, about the hypnosis session, about Carmen being behind the whole thing. Jane tries to start on their current plan in motion, but she silences him with a glare before he gives any details. She isn't ready to implicate them into something that may cost them their jobs.

As they talk, she catches Cho glancing sharply at Jane once or twice. She refuses to let her thoughts linger about _why_ – though she knows, of course she does. Cho was always the most likely to notice the holes in their story – the things they gloss over, the things neither of them explain.

How Jane figured out she was in trouble.

How he spent a whole night guarding her, a gun on his lap, when she was incapacitated by the drugs.

Why at first they both thought it might be Red John.

Those things she considered as they happened, wondered about, but now refuses to ponder longer than necessary.

 _Now is not the time._

It takes less than fifteen minutes to come to the end of what she feels comfortable disclosing. Silence falls on the office. For a moment her team members look at each other, assessing the situation as if they were debriefing one of their regular cases. They think so loudly she can nearly hear them, though she wouldn't chance a guess as to _what_ they're thinking.

"So – how can we help?" asks Rigsby, breaking the standstill.

"As Jane said, we have a plan," she admits. "But I cannot allow you three in. If this gets out before we have enough proof or worse, if it doesn't work – "

"Of course it'll work!" interrupts Jane, offended.

" – if it _doesn't_ work and you're found helping us, you'll all get in trouble."

"What about you?" asks Van Pelt.

"I'm already on suspension. You three need to keep your heads down until we sort out this mess."

"Or at least don't get caught," adds Jane, grinning.

" _Jane!_ "

He shrugs, chuckling quietly.

"Come on, Lisbon. You don't really expect them to just stand there and wait, right?"

"That's _exactly_ what I'm expecting."

"That's not happening," says Cho. "We're already in trouble with Bosco. Might as well keep pushing. Nobody's going to go as hard on this case as us."

"Yeah, and whatever we do now, it won't get any worse for us. Not after the visit we paid to David Charles, anyway."

"So – you say it's Dr. Carmen who gave you the drugs? Maybe I could check out his financials to – "

"No," she interrupts with a glare. "We don't have a warrant. If you check his financial records illegally and find something, we won't be able to use it in court. It could get the whole case thrown out."

They glance at each other again, and she knows that expression – the stubborn, headstrong look of the cops who won't let go now that there's a trail to follow. If she doesn't give them something to do, they'll rush in and do more harm than good. She takes a deep breath.

" _But_ ," she adds reluctantly. "Now at least we know Carmen didn't order the hit himself. The CBI doesn't pay him enough to waste ten grands on that kind of scheme. So that means someone hired him – someone with resources."

"Someone who's desperate to get Lisbon out of the way," adds Jane, catching on. "And who thinks like a criminal – enough to order a hit."

"You mean a suspect from an open case," says Cho after a small beat.

" _Maybe_. We don't know. But we already have warrants and subpoenas for most of those cases, so – I mean, if you three wanted to do a little digging that way, _in your free time of course_ , I couldn't stop you."

Van Pelt's grin is full of teeth. Cho and Rigsby look determined – ready for action. And for a small second she thinks maybe it'll be enough. Maybe they can solve this with good police work. No need to trick anybody – just follow the evidence, find the killer, arrest everyone with a connection to the case.

But then she meets Jane's gaze. He must see the hope on her face, because he shakes his head slowly – and he's right. Those are nothing but pipe dreams. If she lets her guard down, Carmen will act faster than they can.

 _Damn it._

They have no choice but to see this con to its end.

"But _first_ ," she interjects before they can think of leaving the room. "We go to Bosco about David Charles."

"What?!"

"But – "

"Boss!"

"No discussion! Bosco is in charge of the case, not us. He's a great detective, his team does good work. We shouldn't keep that kind of lead from him."

She takes a deep breath.

"Van Pelt, start digging. Cho, Rigsby, you're the ones who talked to Charles – come with me. Jane – "

His grin is infuriating.

" – stay _away_ from Bosco," she growls.

 _No need to make things worse. It'll be hard enough coming back from this, once it's all over._

"Boss," says Cho quietly, as they follow her upstairs. "Isn't Bosco the kind of man who resents other cops intruding on his jurisdiction?"

"Yeah," adds Rigsby. "He won't like that we're the ones to come up with a lead."

Their eyes are boring a hole on the back of her neck. She pinches her lips, but doesn't answer.

 _I know. That's what I'm counting on._

* * *

When Lisbon's voice echoes loudly through the bullpen, he chews on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing out loud.

 _She's doing it. She really is!_

For a moment there, he almost expected her to change her mind.

He puts on a convincing mask of surprise then walks to the bullpen where most of his co-workers are standing stunned, like rabbits in the headlights. He tries but is unable to completely hide the slight hint of a bounce in his steps.

 _We're doing this!_

"What was that, Lisbon?"

"She's freaking out," says Bosco, eyebrows etched into a worried frown.

"Oh, come on. It's just Lisbon."

"She's a little stressed," says Cho.

The man's expression is impassive as he glances back and forth between him and Lisbon's office, where she paces like an angry lion. He bites back a grin. Rigsby and Bosco may be clueless, but Cho –

– _Cho certainly isn't._

"What is going on?" asks Van Pelt, coming from behind him.

Her question finds an answer when a chair crashes through the window. Activity stop in the bullpen and for a second, the only noise left is the one coming from small pieces of shattered glass falling on the ground. He nearly rolls his eyes at the small, shy ' _sorry!_ ' she mumbles under her breath – and he runs to her, closely followed by Bosco, before she can give up the act.

"Why is this happening to me?"

Despite the hesitation in her voice, her body language is impressive – if he didn't know better, he probably wouldn't catch it right away. Her shoulders are hunched but not too much, just enough to make her appear confused and vulnerable, and her expression is heartbreaking.

She looks – _small_.

Completely unlike the strong, fierce persona they know so well. Nothing remains of the headstrong team leader. Tonight, she's young, and defenceless, and vulnerable.

The perfect combo to attract sharks.

 _Or shrinks._

"It's alright," he says, soothing. "Let's – let's go."

They need to get out of here as quickly as possible – the day is falling already. But Bosco interposes himself between them and the door.

"I'll take her," he says.

 _Uh-oh. We didn't plan for that._

Lisbon freezes, glances at him, then at Bosco. He can see the conflict on her features – probably not wanting to alienate Bosco further by leaving with him, he guesses. He catches her gaze, then glances at Cho. A tiny blink, and she falls back into the act.

"No," she says, voice choked up. "Leave me alone."

She walks out, follows Cho to the elevator. He stays behind, watching until they turn the corner, and lets out a small sigh of relief.

She didn't drop the ball.

 _Good girl._

When he glances behind him, intent on making sure Bosco isn't going to throw sand in their wheels again, he's taken aback by the man's forlorn expression. He expected misdirected anger perhaps, recriminations, accusations – something aggressive, or at least _passive_ -aggressive, just like all of their previous interactions. But instead of anger, the line of his shoulders scream protectiveness, the hand laid on his gun speaks of helplessness and worry, and a hint of wistfulness shadows his eyes.

 _What is that?_

Then the man notices him watching. His expression darkens and – _ah_. There's the anger.

"I hope you intend to find who killed McTier before Lisbon gets worse," he says before Bosco can speak, taking the offensive. "Do a little _police work_."

Because she might have told him to stay away from him, but the look on his face made it clear the man wasn't heading back to his office. And keeping him from interfering, keeping him away from Lisbon's apartment tonight is crucial for the success of their plans.

Annoying him is just bonus.

"Oh, that's pretty rich. It's not as if someone like _you_ would know anything about that."

"Seems pretty clear to me you don't know either."

Bosco looks about to implode. He hides his grins. This is too easy.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Just a few minutes ago you were served a lead on a silver platter," he points out. "Instead of taking it gracefully, you antagonised Lisbon and pushed her over the edge. Do you really think she needed this from you? On top of everything else?"

Bosco takes two quick steps towards him, and for a split second he's genuinely frightened – the man's veins are bulging on each side of his neck, his fists spasming with barely contained violence, and his face is purple with rage. But then the moment passes – the agent reigns himself in, swallowing convulsively until his expression turns cold again.

"Don't you _dare_ say this is my fault, Jane. Just because you're her – "

Bosco interrupts himself, clenches his teeth – then pokes his chest with two fingers. Hard.

" _Ow!_ "

" – her _consultant_ , doesn't mean you know what she needs better than everyone else. Or _at all_."

He licks his lips, chest hurting, mouth unbearably dry.

There is no doubt _consultant_ isn't what the man intended to say.

" _You_ are the one who messes with her head on a regular basis," Bosco adds. "For all I know, _you're_ the one behind all of this."

Caught up in a whirl of spinning thoughts, he nearly misses the accusation.

 _Wait. What is he saying?_

"You think _I_ kill McTier?" he says, then chuckles. "That's ridiculous."

"Yeah? We'll see about that. Don't expect the same kind of free pass you get from Lisbon. If you're guilty, I'll catch you even if it's the last thing I do."

Bosco pushes him out of his way, charging towards the other end of the hallway like a bull. He waits a few seconds – when the elevator doors open with the usual screech, he runs to make sure the man is going in the right direction.

 _Up to his office. Good._

He leans against the wall a moment, rubbing his chest – though he already knows Bosco's _love tap_ will bruise, it's nothing compared to what he could have done. Nothing compared to what he obviously _wanted_ to do.

And what he nearly said –

– _no. Stop. There will be time to think about that later._

Right now, he has a job to do.

Pawns to move into the right position.

 _One down. Two to go._

* * *

The last rays of sunlight disappear as they exit the building. She keeps in character until Cho starts the car, then lets her head fall against the window, a long sigh of relief escaping from her lungs. Her team member stays silent, but she can feel the weight of the glances he throws her way – halfway between confusion and dark amusement.

She doesn't know how much he understood of what is going on – not too much, she hopes. Deniability will be his best defence if what they're planning tonight doesn't work. But she doesn't kid herself – it's Cho. Surely he guessed at least half of it as it was playing out, and now has time to work out the rest.

He doesn't ask, however. And she stays silent, overcome with tiredness.

 _It's nearly over. One last push, then we'll have Carmen in custody. Just one last act and it's done._

Cho's careful driving doesn't help settle the sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. She already knew he never takes any risks on the road – but this time she wishes he'd speed up. She longs for the quietness of her apartment. But there is no asking him to break the law just so she can get home faster – so she waits and keeps silent, willing time to hasten its course.

Then he snorts, and she jerks back in alarm.

"Sorry," he says. " _Déjà vu_."

"How so?"

"Drove Jane home a few weeks ago. That's what he was doing – watching outside, head against the window. Exactly what you're doing now."

"When was that?"

"When you were in Chicago. He got all moody."

"Hey! I'm not _moody_."

"Not what I said," says Cho, grinning briefly.

She rolls her eyes, chuckles a little to herself. Seems she isn't the only one who learned how to be sneaky these last few years. She still raises her head, feeling self-conscious – doesn't like the idea that her current attitude mimics Jane's when he's in a mood.

"Nice con you're running with Jane. Clever. You're counting on Carmen visiting you later?"

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," she smiles.

His expression is as inscrutable as ever, but there's a sparkle of laughter in his dark eyes.

"Okay. On the _off-chance_ it's a con, your breakdown was pretty convincing. Nearly got me for a minute."

"What gave it away? I mean – hypothetically. If it was a con."

"Jane. He looked way too happy when you started yelling."

She lets out a short laugh. Of all the things he could have pointed out, a critique of _Jane's_ performance is the last thing she expected.

"I've been thinking about who did this," says Cho, abruptly changing the subject. "Maybe it's not an open case."

She frowns.

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe it's a _trial_ case. One in which the conviction is still pending. You're supposed to testify against Milton Howard this week, right?"

"Yes," she says, rubbing her chin lightly. " _Oh_. Yeah, that makes a lot of sense. We never found the money he stole. Ten thousand dollars to lure the victim would be pocket change for him. Good thinking."

She reaches for her phone, ready to call Rigsby, then comes back to her senses.

 _Damn it. I'm supposed to be having a breakdown._

"I'll tell them when I get back," offers Cho, accurately interpreting her gestures.

"Yeah," she mutters. "Thanks."

"Don't worry, we'll nail the bastard. We got no choice to clear you, anyway."

There's the hint of a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.

"What do you mean?"

"Who's gonna control Jane if you're not around?"

She snorts.

"Nobody controls Jane."

" _You_ do."

"No I don't."

He glances at her left hand. She tightens it into a fist reflexively.

" _Yes._ You do. I was in charge when you were in Chicago, remember? Trust me. The only way to get him to behave was threatening him to disturb your off time and report his bad behaviour. So we got no choice but to keep you around, Boss. Otherwise it'll be hell."

She chuckles a little, but averts her eyes.

No matter how hard she thinks about it, there is no right answer.

They drive silently as the night falls, shadows stretching over the city until no natural light remains. Anxiety starts rising as they get closer to her place, the familiar streets reminding her that this last act is the most important one – the only one she absolutely cannot fail.

 _But we won't fail._ I _won't fail._

"So, if this was a con, what would you expect me to do now?" asks Cho as he parks in front of her apartment.

She looks at him, bites her lip.

"Rigsby and Van Pelt are digging already," he adds. "I could go back and help, but _hypothetically_ , if you need me on something else – "

"I think that _hypothetically_ , I'd tell you to stay around," she answers, weighing every word. "They took away my badge – any arrest I make could be thrown off in court."

"Yeah. Nobody wants that."

"Call Rigsby and Van Pelt, tell them about Howard," she adds. "Park a little while away – we don't want Carmen to notice you – but stay close by. We'll call you over when it's done."

She pauses, then smiles again.

"I mean, that's what I would tell you. _If_ it was a con."

Cho's teeth flash briefly.

"Got it."

A bicycle flies past them on the side walk. She opens the door, gets out.

"Boss," calls Cho.

The wind makes her shiver. She turns back to him, frowning, rubbing her hands up and down her arms.

"Yeah?"

"On the off chance this is a con – good luck."

He can probably read the surprise on her face – but there is no time to talk further. Carmen could drop by any minute now. So she nods, offers the ghost of a smile – one that finds its improbable reflection on Cho's lips – and takes a step back.

He drives away as she gets inside.

After taking a few deep breaths to steady herself, she walks to the middle of the living room, taking in her surroundings as if she was a stranger coming in for the first time. What can she do to make it appear the home of a desperate woman? An image of Tommy passed out on the couch comes to the forefront of her mind, blending in with the same, older picture of their father.

The alcoholic black-outs. That's where she needs to start.

She finds an ancient bottle of Kentucky Whiskey in her cupboard behind a bottle of wine, one she didn't even remember was there. Perfect. She reaches up to take a glass, then stops. Smirks, and picks up a mug instead.

Let him believe she tops her coffee.

She leaves the bottle and mug on the table in her living room. Takes three steps back, and cocks her head.

 _Won't be enough. What more?_

Something buzzes in her pocket. She picks up the phone – Sam picture's greets her. Biting her lip, she lets it ring, climbing up the stairs to her bedroom.

She cannot afford the distraction.

Going upstairs turns out to be a good idea – the football jersey she usually sleeps in is spread out over the pillow. It reminds her of how her father would sleep off the booze in his underwear, uncaring who could see him in this state.

This is what she needs to mimic.

She removes her makeup, then puts the jersey on with a grimace of distaste. The idea that Carmen will be allowed to invade her privacy so completely before she can arrest him makes her skin crawl. In comparison, letting Jane in is _tame_ – even as he put his eyes all over her personal space and his fingers all over her mind.

But she can do it.

 _Has_ to do it.

When she's done, she gets back down, bare feet padding on the carpeted floor she so rarely gets to enjoy. Focused, she appraises the place again.

 _It's not messy enough._

Exposing more of her privacy isn't an option. What could give an impression of chaos without –

– ah.

 _Yes_.

Scattered pills would do nicely.

She goes back upstairs, finds a bottle of vitamins with duotone capsules in her medicine cabinet – visually striking and perfect for her purpose. An old empty prescription pills container completes the picture. A desperate, suicidal cop would definitively keep narcotics around.

 _This is what Jane meant when he said to create a narrative._

The phone rings again.

 _Talk about the wolf._

She picks up.

"I'm about to meet with Minelli," he says. "Is everything ready?"

"Think so. Not sure, I could be forgetting something."

"Run it by me."

"Alcohol in a mug, was thinking I'd mix it with coffee. Pills and an old prescription container on the table. My gun. I think that's it."

"Forget about the coffee, just the alcohol is fine – it's about the visuals, not the authenticity. He won't be there long enough to question it, especially not when you point your gun at him. Did you scatter some magazines around? Spare bullets on the coffee table maybe?"

"Good idea. Anything else?"

"Relaxed clothing?"

"Sleepwear, no makeup."

"Recording device?"

She closes her eyes, pinches the bridge of her nose.

"Crap, I forgot it in my desk. Do you think you can pick it on your way out?"

"We'll see. Charge your phone, just in case. And keep the bottle in sight, but cover your gun. I'll be there soon."

"Jane, wait!"

"What is it?"

His quiet confidence is reassuring, and she wants more of it.

"How can – I mean – I feel like I'm about to throw up. Do you have a trick or something to – ?"

He chuckles.

"Dance the jitters away, Lisbon."

" _Dance?_ "

"Sure! Good way to unwind. Get that Spice Girls CD out and move. Gotta go, Minelli's coming. See you soon."

He hangs up and she closes her eyes, rubs the bridge of her nose. Then opens them again and picks up her MP3 player. He may be right – there could be something in there to help her get in the right mood.

Earphones plugged in, she places a wash cloth on her gun, scatters the pills around, and fills her mug with alcohol.

Waits.

And dances.

* * *

A crisp, cool wind blows in short bursts, chilling him to the bone as he parks two blocks away from Lisbon's apartment. Coils of tension twist his stomach unpleasantly – but the sensation is well-known, an old friend from his showman days, and he ignores it as he walks the short trip to her street.

He notices Cho's car immediately, of course – offers a grin and a little wave as he passes by, but doesn't stop to chat. There's no time for that.

A deep breath as he climbs the stairs brings the smell of rain to his nose. He smiles, then knocks.

No answer.

He frowns, knocks again – with more insistence, this time.

" _Coming!_ No need to break it!" she grunts, finally opening the door.

She blinks.

He blinks too. Who knew Lisbon was half made of legs?

"Geez, you scared me. I thought Carmen was showing up early. What took you so long?"

He pats his pocket.

"We needed a recorder."

"Right. Well, don't stay on the doorstep. Hurry in!"

She locks the door behind them and disappears into the living room. He follows, takes a look around.

The place is a mess.

A perfect, glorious mess. Books and magazines, pills and bullets scattered on the table, on the couch, on the floor. Everywhere. A dirty mug on the desk, half filled with alcohol, sitting on top of stained sheets of paper. Her laundry basket, still full of unfolded clothes, carelessly left in the way. A bottle of hard liquor – whisky, by the looks of it – forgotten on the coffee table beside a random towel, under which her gun is probably hidden.

Perfect.

 _Nearly_ perfect.

"So?" she asks nervously, dropping on the couch.

She crosses her legs at the ankle. He licks his lips, looks away from her calves.

"That bottle is too full. But the rest of it is spot on."

Picking it up, he checks the label.

"Was this a gift?"

"Probably. Didn't even remember I had it."

"So – not one you particularly cared about, then?"

She shrugs.

"Good."

With a swift grin, he takes the bottle to the kitchen and pours half of it down the drain.

"Hey! What are you – _are you nuts?! Give me that!_ "

She grabs his arm to stop him. He chuckles, letting her take the bottle back – it's nearly empty anyway. He can see she struggles not to cradle it to her chest.

"What the hell, Jane?!"

"It was too full. Carmen would never believe you're drunk if the bottle is barely open."

"You could have done that without wasting alcohol!"

"You don't even drink whisky."

"That's not the point!"

She's bristling, hackles raised high, eyes sparkling in anger. His grin widens.

"I'll replace it, don't you worry."

" _Still_ not the point!"

"Ah- _ah_. Your Irish roots are showing, my dear."

She growls wordlessly. He chuckles. After a few seconds she rolls her eyes, then bites her lips to conceal a smile. His own is wider, teasing her one of his favourite pastimes. And he could keep this up all night, but Carmen will be there soon and they still have a few things to go over. So he shepherds her back to the living room, fingers brushing against the small of her back, and grabs the whisky mug from her desk as they walk past it.

"You should close the blinds," he says, handing her the mug.

"I wanted to see him coming."

"Better not take that chance. He'll see us waiting."

She looks outside a bit longer before pulling on the thread. Taking advantage of her distraction, he examines her as critically as he did the settings. She did an impressive job putting this all together – understandable, as she spent enough time with alcoholics to know exactly how to make those settings convincing.

But she doesn't quite look like someone in the throes of a nervous collapse.

Nor like a drunk woman, for that matter.

 _Something is missing._

"Hmm."

He walks to her, tilts her chin up, looking left and right as she blinks up at him – then turns around, picks up a washcloth from the laundry basket, comes back to her side, and dips it in the whisky mug she's still holding.

"Uh – what are you doing?"

"Perfecting your disguise," he grins. "Here."

Gently holding her chin up, he dabs her temples and the sides of her face with the damp fabric. She blinks at him, cheeks colouring, but doesn't pull away.

"A bit of sweat should help convince him you drank too much," he says, brushing a few strands of hair away. "Alcohol will leave a sheen on your skin and the smell will follow you around. It's not exactly the same as authentic, drunk sweat – but for our purpose, it's close enough."

"Right. Should have thought of that."

"And – "

She raises an eyebrow.

" – your hairdo is too neat," he grins.

He musses her hair quickly.

"Hey! Get off me!"

She glares, but there is no bite hiding behind the smile quirking up her lips. He still takes a step back cautiously, just in case – he keeps a keen memory of how hard she punches and kicks when tickled or otherwise annoyed.

"Here. Suck on it," he adds, leaving the piece of fabric in her hands.

"I can't drink, even just a taste. Need my head in the game."

"Then just wash your mouth with it and spit it out in the sink. You want him to smell the whisky on your breath."

She growls something about wasting alcohol again, but disappears in the kitchen just the same. He smirks, then climbs up a few stairs, settles behind the half wall and takes out the recorder.

Hopefully he won't need to wait too long. Those steps are harder than they look.

"Jane?"

"Up here."

She sits a few steps down from him. One of her legs bounces restlessly.

"You'll need to stay hidden until he betrays himself," she says. "Otherwise there's a chance he'll see you."

"I know."

"Okay. Uh, and don't forget to start the recording as soon as I open the door."

"I _know_ , Lisbon. Giving me _déjà vu_ on purpose?"

"What do you mean?"

He raises his eyebrows, waiting for her to remember his own bout of concern. She averts her eyes.

"Hmpf."

He can see her biting her lips compulsively, stopping herself from voicing what's on her mind – and it doesn't take much to guess what _that_ is.

"It's going to be _fine_."

"Yeah _right_. I still feel like I'm about to throw up."

"Well, you can."

"Throw up?"

"Sure, if it makes you feel better. Would fit right in with your character. Of course, you might want to wait until Carmen shows up, so you can – "

" – aim it at his stupid vests, yeah. I know."

"I was going to say 'so you can convince him you've been on a binge', but I like your idea better," he chuckles.

She shakes her head ruefully, smiling a little – still agitated. But she isn't the only one feeling nervous, and they both jump when the wind picks up, shaking the windows in their frames.

"Rain," he hums.

"Yeah?"

"Not yet, I think. But soon."

She nods. Muffled thunder rumbles outside.

"Oh! Nearly forgot."

She jumps to her feet, disappears down the stairs. He can hear her rummaging in the desk beside the entrance, but from where he sits there's no way to see what she's doing.

"Here," she says, coming back. "I want you to hold onto this."

She's holding a gun – a well-oiled, metallic black _killing machine_. His hands stay frozen on his knees.

"Take it," she insists.

"Uh, no thanks."

"Jane. I need you to take it."

He licks his lips, mouth unbearably dry – staring at the unassuming firearm, echoes of a shotgun firing through his mind.

"Don't you already have one under that towel right there?"

"Yes. It's unloaded. I need you to hold onto the loaded one."

"And, uh – remind me why I should be the one taking it?" he asks, trying to keep his voice and breathing under control.

"Because we're confronting a suspect and _someone_ needs to be armed."

"Yes. But I'm not a cop, so shouldn't that be _you?_ "

"Normally it would be, yes. But normally you'd also be the one luring him out, and I'd be sitting where you are as your back-up. Not this time."

"But – "

" _Jane_."

He cringes.

"It's not gonna _bite_ you."

" _It's a loaded gun_."

"You spent a whole night holding one not even a week ago!"

"Desperate times, Lisbon. You were unconscious."

"The safety is on. You probably won't need to use it."

"What if I have to? I'm not trained. What if Carmen has a weapon of his own and shoots or – or _kills_ someone before I can stop him? I'd feel a lot safer if you were the one to hold onto this."

She rolls her eyes.

"We both know your aim and reflexes are better than most cops I know. This is one thing on which I completely trust you, Jane – is that what you wanted to hear?"

He doesn't answer – _cannot_ answer, and swallows convulsively, nails sinking deep into his palms. She sighs impatiently.

"Listen. If you don't take it, I'll have to use this one as prop and guess what? I'd rather not have to hold a loaded gun to my own head!"

He lets out a shuddering breath.

"You, uh – you make a compelling point."

"So will you take it or not?"

"Okay. Yeah."

He holds out his left hand, soulmark – _her name_ – shining silver in the middle of his palm. She flinches slightly, shooting him a quick glance, then drops the weapon in his waiting hand. In turn, he drops it carefully in his lap. The cold, heavy weight and strong metallic scent churn his stomach.

"You really hate guns, do you?" asks Lisbon softly, frowning.

"Yes. I do."

"They scare you."

"Healthy respect, Lisbon. Anyone in their right mind would be wary of them."

"You mean _afraid_."

"I mean _wary_. You know, sometimes I wonder what that says about – about _you_ cops. That you're not. _Wary_."

He expected an eye roll, her usual reaction to his flippant insults – but she cocks her head instead, trails a careful gaze over him, and he'll have to reconsider that deflection technique if she's already seeing through it.

"One day, you'll have to tell me why you hate them so much," she says.

"You mean what happened back in June isn't enough?"

She gives him a pointed look.

"You hated guns way before that, Jane."

" _Ah_. I see it now. You want me to tell you about my childhood sob stories."

He grins, sweat beading on the back of his neck.

"I told you about mine, it's only fair," she points out.

The teasing undertones of her voice let him know she won't push – opening up is his choice. Lips painfully stretched over his teeth, he looks down.

"Maybe another time. Carmen is about to show up, we need to stay focused."

She nods, a thin glimmer awfully akin to disappointment in her eyes. He averts his, trying to forget about the weapon in his lap, fingers playing with his wedding band.

It's not that he doesn't _trust_ her, he tries to convince himself. It's just that he's so used to keeping those things to himself. Besides, they _really_ don't have the time to start on that sort of conversation now.

 _Hypocrite_ , whispers a voice in his mind – one that sounds painfully like his wife's.

They spend some time in silence, listening for footsteps amidst the sounds of cracking branches and rustling leaves.

"What were you planning to do?" he asks when the quietness threatens to suffocate them.

"Huh?"

She looks startled out of her thoughts – and he knows that faraway look in her eyes. Nothing good comes out of it. Nothing but self-doubt, the kind that leads to failure.

They cannot afford failure.

Not tonight.

"Last Tuesday. What were you going to do, if Carmen didn't dose you up?"

She huffs, but her gaze clears.

 _Good._

"Nothing special," she answers. "Couch, TV. Just a night at home."

"That's a shame."

"How so?"

It's on the tip of his tongue to remark on the lovely shape of her legs and how she could find activities that would allow her to display them more often – but in doing so he would have to acknowledge looking in the first place, which he has no intention of doing.

"Just a little worried about your social life."

She rolls her eyes.

"My social life is none of your business. Worry about your own."

He shrugs and smiles. Silence falls again, but not an unpleasant one.

They wait.

"Cho guessed it was a con," she adds, moments later.

"Doesn't surprise me. I saw him on my way here."

"Told him to stay around for the arrest."

"Did he say what gave you away?"

"You, actually."

" _Me?_ "

"Said you looked too happy."

" _What?_ That's ridiculous."

They grin at each other – wide, toothy grins full of anxiety and dread – until someone knocks at the door, killing all appearances of laughter and chit-chat. For a second they stay unmoving, frozen to the spot. A hint of panic slips into her enlarged eyes. She can probably read the same emotion mirrored in his own.

 _This is it._

"You'll do fine," he mouths silently. "Go!"

She nods jerkily, then pads to the door. He presses the recording button and ducks down, holding his breath when the hinges squeak.

"Minelli asked me to drop by. Well – ordered me to drop by, actually. Can we talk?"

"Minelli?"

"He's worried about you. We all are."

Carmen's voice is close – too close, coming up just under his feet. But Lisbon is talking again and he decides to chance a look, counting on the shrink focussing his attention on her, not on potential creaks from upstairs.

 _Just a quick peek to make sure everything is alright. Just a small, no-more-than-a-split-second glance, then –_

But of course, one glimpse and he finds himself entranced, unable to look away.

Despite her performance a few nights before, he wasn't quite sure she would be able to convince Carmen on her own. She's too honest, unable to lie convincingly, and she's doing this for the first time – with the stress from this kind of high stakes, nobody could blame her for slipping up. He was fully prepared to take the matter in his own hands, or call Cho for back-up five minutes in. Or even let Carmen go, then rely on Rigsby and Van Pelt's research to find enough proof for a subpoena, a search warrant, an arrest order – whatever cops need to ensure both the shrink and whoever ordered the hit are out of commission.

Watching Lisbon's tiny, gun-totting, staggering form amble around the living room, he realises they won't need anyone else's help.

 _She's pulling it off._

"Don't look at me like that," she says, pointing the gun at Carmen. " _Don't_ look at me like that. This is your fault."

"Teresa – "

" _You_ unlocked too many things in my head and now _I can't remember!_ My head is messed up and it's _your fault_."

The man is terrified. He doesn't need to see his face to know – Carmen tries to keep himself steady, but panic is leaking out of his voice like a waterfall. He smirks.

The weapon she's waving around isn't what he should be afraid of.

 _Lisbon's wrath is a lot scarier._

He holds his breath, listening intently, watching them like a hawk – ready to act if she falters, but now convinced she won't.

" _Teresa_ – put it down! You need to be calm and _put down the gun_."

" _Calm?_ "

The intensity in her eyes nearly takes his breath away.

"You were right, doctor. There _was_ something I wanted to tell you."

He cringes when she holds the firearm to her temple. But, despite the striking visuals, his palm _isn't_ burning. And after the first few seconds of unreasonable stress, he manages to calm down, regulate his breathing – enough to focus his attention on them again, and _watch_.

Watch as she pours her heart out to Carmen, captivating the man and ensnaring him with an irresistible narrative.

Watch as tears stream down her cheeks – _so right for the con, but so wrong at the same time_ – the steely, determined spark in her eyes never faltering.

Watch as she nearly breaks character when she reacts to Carmen's pitiful attempt at hypnosis – but then reasserts herself in a split second and _keeps going_ , fooling him completely.

Watch as she staggers unbalanced on those shapely legs, catching herself at the last moment, and keeps up the act until the very end.

Watch as Carmen betrays himself.

Watch as her lips quirk up, her whole face alight with self-satisfaction – and as his stomach plummets down, weighted with a mix of emotions too complicated to identify, all of them merging into a single thought.

 _Your name is written on my palm._

He shakes himself almost violently.

"Oh – _beautifully done_. Lovely work, Lisbon," he says, breaking the standstill.

Because he promised to let her catch the man on her own, but she got him to reveal himself already – _that's good enough, isn't it?_ – and if he doesn't talk, if he doesn't take back control, if he doesn't hide himself behind the showman _right now_ , he'll drown.

So he puts on a mask, and grins, and waves his hands as he explains the trick, and grins again when she punches Carmen's nose because _it's so deserved_. And keeps grinning as she handcuffs him, as she calls Cho, as Cho takes the shrink away – hiding how the earthquake born amidst gunshots and screams on a warm night six weeks ago finally opened up a chasm under his feet. Hiding how the demons he locked away are escaping now, and all at once converging on him. Hiding how his last defence mechanisms are crumbling to dust, leaving him scraped and raw and _scared_.

Scared of a tiny little woman in an oversized sports jersey and of the power she isn't even aware she holds over him.

They exchange a few parting words after Cho leaves, the memory of which dissolve as soon as their echo disappear from the room, and the sky breaks over his head as he crosses the threshold, cold rain quickly drenching his clothes.

 _Fitting._

"At least wait inside until the cab arrives!"

"Why would I do that? I love the rain."

"You'll get sick!"

"Meh. We Janes are made of stern stuff – we don't get sick."

"Are you _sure?_ "

"See you tomorrow, Lisbon."

Her sigh raises the thin hair on the back of his neck.

"Good night, Jane."

She smiles at him, shakes her head indulgently when he twirls on himself, sticking his tongue out – closing his eyes, turning away from her, keeping up this clownish act until she disappears behind the door.

Then he waits for the cab she called, walks back and forth restlessly, welcoming the wet drops on his skin. Hoping they'll somehow put out the fire burning his brain, and at the same time, knowing that they won't.

 _She's quite extraordinary, that soulmate of yours_ , whispers Angela in his mind, a teasing lilt to her voice.

"Yes," he whispers back, mouth filled with the taste of ashes. "She is."

* * *

She expected relief and exhaustion to knock her out quickly, allowing her to reclaim the rest she hasn't had in weeks. Instead she spends the night tossing and turning, filled with a strange energetic glee – and despite the three short hours of sleep she gets at dawn, she wakes up distressingly ready to bounce her way up to the moon.

This odd ecstatic mood follows her all day, like a drug she's unable to come down from. Nothing helps – no endlessly filling forms to end her suspension, no extensive interrogation by one of Sam's underlings, no waiting hours on an uncomfortable plastic chair to get her badge back. And concealing that restlessness before knocking at Minelli's door is one of the hardest things she's ever done.

"You wanted to see me, boss?"

"Yes. Come in."

Minelli isn't at his desk, as she expected to find him. Instead he's facing the window, hands behind his back, staring at the sunset. He doesn't turn as she closes the door behind her. She stays near the entrance, rocking uneasily on her feet – uncertain how he wants to play this, and unwilling to assume.

"Sit," he says after a whole minute of awkward silence.

He doesn't move from the window as she makes her way slowly to the chair.

"Boss?"

" _Sit_ ," he repeats.

She pulls the chair and sits, nonplussed. Not for the first time – and certainly not the last, either – she wishes she could read people as well as Jane.

Minelli finally faces her, a heavy sigh escaping from his lungs. The dark circles under his eyes startle her. She's seen him tired along the years, and worried, and weary. She's never seen him _old_. But now, his usual might reduced to grey sadness lingering in the slant of his mouth even as he towers over her, arms crossed on his chest – now, he is.

He is, and a small seed of uneasiness settles deep down into her stomach.

"Lisbon – _Teresa_. I'm having quite the conundrum regarding yours and your team's actions this past week. Maybe you can help me with that."

She blinks her acknowledgement, fists clenching on her knees, and waits. There's a spark of stern amusement in Minelli's eye, but she isn't yet sure how reassuring it's supposed to be.

"You see, I feel myself torn between owing you an apology – " he says, punctuating his hesitation with an impatient hand gesture, " – and my _deep annoyance_ at having been deceived along with your suspect."

"Sir, I – "

She interrupts herself when he looks down at her sharply, and bites her lip. There's an inappropriate laugh bubbling up somewhere inside her – because she's been _so often_ in this exact position with Jane. She does her best to keep it down, but she cannot stop traces of it from showing on her face – and when Minelli smirks and leans against the desk, she knows she failed to conceal her amusement.

"Yes, I believe this is a situation you are familiar with, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

" _Yes_. You and Jane, you might find this very amusing but I don't enjoy it much myself. Be as it may – "

The smirk slides off his face and he looks old again. Her stomach twists and she shuffles in her seat, deeply uncomfortable.

"Teresa – I need to tell you how _deeply_ sorry I am. I should have treated you better. Should have _known_ better."

And Jane's words are floating somewhere in the back of her mind, something about _overreactions_ and _feeling betrayed_ and _family_ , and Minelli is looking so old, _ancient_ really, and suddenly she doesn't want to hear it.

"It's okay, boss," she says, getting up. "Don't worry about it."

"No, listen. I – I should have given you the benefit of doubt. You've been my best agent for a good long while now, and the way I reacted was – "

" _Virgil_ ," she interrupts.

He stops talking. She touches his elbow briefly.

"It's fine. I understand. We tricked you, you reacted, no harm done. I still got my job back, right?" she adds, the corners of her lips quirking up of their own volition.

"Of course you do."

With barely an hesitation, she pats his arm in a gesture she hopes is comforting and not too awkward. His eyes widen, strangely vulnerable, and for a second she wonders if he's about to break down – but then the moment passes. He shakes himself, clears his voice, and gives her a pointed look.

"I couldn't just leave you on suspension, Teresa. Nobody else knows how to handle Jane. Without you here, it's only a question of time before that ticking bomb goes off."

"And that's the only reason I get my job back, of course," she grins.

"What other reason could there be?"

But Minelli is amused now, his eyes are soft despite the gruff frown, and she knows they're okay again.

"I trust next time something like this happens, you will come and see me right away, yes?" he says as she turns to leave.

She nods – and won't remind him that she tried to, the day before. It doesn't matter anymore. And it wouldn't have changed anything, even if she did manage to convince him.

" _Before_ apologies are needed," he adds sternly. "I also expect you to foot the bill for that window you broke."

"Of course, boss," she chuckles.

Minelli tip his head in her direction, eyes sparkling fondly.

"Welcome back, Agent Lisbon."

Two of her fingers briefly find the badge on her belt. She smiles, then leaves.

The door snaps shut behind her.

"Welcome back, boss," says Rigsby, childish gleam of happiness alight in his eyes, as she walks back into the bullpen.

"Thanks," she grins. "Any news?"

"We got a full confession from Carmen. Cho and Van Pelt are still working on Howard, but it doesn't look like he's ready to crack. We have rock solid evidence on the case though, so it doesn't matter. We got him."

"Good."

She pauses, gives a look around. Frowns.

The couch is empty.

"Where's Jane?"

"No idea. Didn't see him since this morning."

Her frown deepens. Rigsby shrugs, unconcerned. Stopping herself from drumming fingers on her arm – or pacing up and down the bullpen, for that matter – is physically painful.

"He said something about closed case doughnuts. Maybe he'll show up later?"

She rolls her eyes, a reluctant, affectionate smile tugging at her lips. That titbit says more about Rigsby's personality than Jane's whereabouts.

"Alright. If he _does_ show up, tell him I'm in my office."

"Sure thing, Boss."

Unusual for Jane not to crowd her after closing a case. Every time, when the only thing left on her mind is to crawl into bed and sleep for a thousand years, he's still bouncing around. Always so eager to share his most random thoughts, make her laugh with a gleeful, manic energy – not unlike her own this very moment, for that matter.

 _How the tables have turned_.

She sighs, then brightens at the sight of the cardboard box left on her desk. _Finally_ an outlet to exhaust her restlessness on.

The next hour is spent tidying her desk, dusting all surfaces, rearranging files and cabinets – too absorbed in her self-appointed task to notice ever-lengthening shadows brushing away the golds and crimsons of dusk. Only when she gets to the bottom of the box – rearranging chess pieces on the board Jane gave her years ago – does she realise the sun disappeared, taking any remnant of agitation with it.

 _Well, that's a relief._

"I hear Minelli's billing you for the glass," says Sam, leaning against the door sill.

"It's only fair," she smiles.

"You know, for a cop, you make a very convincing lunatic."

The smile on her lips widens into a grin –

"Your soulmate must be proud," he adds, walking in.

– and immediately slips off as soon as he speaks. She bristles, eyes darting around the open space. But the bullpen is empty, thank _God_. Sam, for all his faults, has always been at least minimally careful.

She clenches her fists, nearly opens her mouth – then stops.

Maybe it's all the time she spent with Jane recently – she never would have noticed how Sam's body language is at odds with his words before. How his voice tones are reproachful, as if designed to irritate her, but his expression is despondent somehow. Nearly _supplicant_. As if he was deliberately goading her. As if he was always eager for a fight – just as Jane pointed out – but dreading it at the same time.

If she hadn't noticed, she would fly off the handle without a hint of hesitation.

But now that she has – _no_.

Enough.

 _It's easier to run away_ , said Jane that first night. They were talking about an act then – just a way to trick Carmen, nothing that should have made an impact in any other area of her life. But facing Sam now is facing the fact she's been running away from too many things recently. And after a whole week spent lying through her teeth, she craves honesty – no matter how painful airing the truth might be.

"Why did you come here?"

A flash of uncertainty passes over Sam's features, then settle into a frown.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean – sometimes it feels like the only times we talk is when we're yelling at each other," she explains, trying to keep her voice even – trying to keep the anger out of it. "I can't even remember the last time we had lunch together or – or just _talked_ like normal people. Like _friends_. Can you?"

Sam looks like she just slapped him across the face but she cannot stop, not yet. She takes a deep breath, crosses her arms on her chest, and ignores the guilt churning in her guts.

"It's like we don't know how to connect anymore. And I think you're aware of it. That's why you keep bringing up topics you know I'll get angry about. It's like you believe that's the only way I'll ever talk to you."

The metallic clang of a door slamming shut echoes somewhere far off in the building. Neither of them pay it any attention.

"I'm _tired_ of it, Sam," she adds, holding his gaze. "And I know it's not just your fault. It's mine too. I'm sorry that I couldn't – _didn't_ trust you enough this week to let you in on the plan. But it's like we've been in the middle of a war for weeks now. Can we just _stop?_ "

For a moment, it seems like he won't answer at all. He keeps looking at her with an expression she's unable to read, unmoving except for his throat bobbing up and down. And she's wondering just how long she should wait before breaking this standstill when Jane suddenly slides in, infuriatingly chipper.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

"No," says Sam, looking ready to bolt.

" _Yes_ ," she snaps at the same time.

Both Sam and Jane freeze, stare at her with identical expressions of surprise. For a second she feels slightly annoyed – and _very_ awkward – under so much scrutiny. But she certainly won't let Sam escape this conversation now, not after she went the extra mile to open up a clear line of communication between them for the first time in what feels like _months_.

He still owes her an answer.

"Jane, just – give us a minute, will you?"

"Sure. Here," he says, sliding a paper bag her way. "Doughnuts from Marie's."

She nods her thanks, but leaves the bag on her desk.

"I'll be on the couch."

Jane walks out with his back straight, still looking a bit stunned, blonde curls briefly catching the light in the hallway before he disappears in the dark bullpen. She watches him leave then turns back to Sam, catching remnants of his confused expression before he schools his features back into something neutral.

"Well?" she prompts – challenging, but not unkind.

Sam sighs deeply and takes a step forward, places two fingers on the cardboard box sitting on her desk. The invasion of her personal space should bother her, and for a moment she wonders why it doesn't. Just for a moment though. Because his body heat across her arm, the warmth of his gaze makes her feel calm, and safe, and _heard_ – and she remembers feeling like this before, countless moments spent side by side over many years. A deep friendship she valued, then mourned, and now feels more than ready to value again.

"You're right," he says. " You're right. Sometimes it's – when Jane is involved, I don't always react like I should with you. I'm sorry."

She nods.

"Jane makes things hectic around here," she offers – her own olive branch.

"Well _that's_ an understatement."

She chuckles. He smiles, a bit hesitant.

"You should know, if it turned out to be you – " he adds, the end of his sentence floating unvoiced between them.

"I know."

Of course she does.

"Just so you do. Enough said."

She holds his gaze for a second, then smiles.

"Okay then. Does that mean I can expect you for lunch tomorrow?"

He huffs a laugh, averts his eyes – almost bashful.

"Sure. How about Cornaro's?"

"Aren't you supposed to be on a diet?"

"Damn. I was hoping you didn't know about that."

She cannot remember the last time they were so at ease around each other – and as they banter and laugh together, she realises it's been even longer than she first thought. When was the last time they were comfortable enough to tease each other this way? Not for years, at least. Maybe not even since San Francisco.

 _Maybe not ever._

It doesn't matter. They may not have had this before, but right now they do. And she relishes every second of it.

Sam doesn't linger – five, ten minutes perhaps, no more. They agree to meet the next day, then wish each other good night. A waft of sugar and cinnamon tickles her nose as she finishes putting her things away, unassuming reminder that Jane is waiting for her in the bullpen.

She expected him to be wrapped up in the throw he usually leaves on the backrest, half-asleep already – or at least pretending to be. Instead she finds him sitting in the dark, his neutral expression made eerie by the glow caught in his upturned hand. It takes her a moment to realise it comes from his soulmark.

For anyone else, he would be sitting in complete darkness.

 _Maybe it's a sign._

Maybe it's time they talk about it.

They've been dancing around the soulmate issue for weeks now, ever since she cleaned Tanner's blood off his hands. She isn't blind to the fact he stopped hiding his palm from her, even going so far as to deliberately shove it under her nose.

 _And if_ that _isn't a passive-aggressive attempt to get me to bring up the subject so he doesn't have to, I'm ready to eat Cho's tie._

But one look at his tight, blank expression and she finds herself out of truth for the night – his fixed gaze, strangely intimidating, dissolves any courage she had left when she started walking towards him.

"Hey," she greets him instead – feeling slightly awkward.

"Hey, Lisbon."

Keeping her own palm out of sight, she drops the paper bag in his lap, then pulls Van Pelt's chair. He smiles briefly but stays silent, staring at his soulmark again. For a long moment neither of them say a word, mesmerised by the soft shimmer in Jane's palm.

"Thank you," she says after a while.

"What for?"

 _Helping me when I needed it. Being there every step of the way. Believing in me._

 _Everything._

"The doughnuts, of course."

He smiles.

"Of course. How did it go with Bosco?"

She shrugs.

"Good. How was your day?"

"Quiet."

She frowns, unable to remember _any_ quiet day around Jane. He shifts slightly under her searching gaze, then leans towards the table and turns on the lamp. Both of them blink in the returned light.

"You know, I didn't see it before."

"What?" she asks, slightly wary.

She recognises the flippant voice tones – the ones he uses when he wants her to pay him attention. He grins.

"Bosco."

"What about him?"

"He's in love with you."

She blinks again, then laughs.

"Don't be silly!"

"I know, hard to fathom. But there's no accounting for taste, is there?"

" _Hush!_ "

She rolls her eyes. For a second she deeply regrets her empty hands – chucking the bag of doughnuts at him, or _anything else_ really, would be so tempting right now. She even eyes the bag, forgotten on the small table beside Jane, but then changes her mind. The exhaustion from this past week – from these past _months_ – is finally catching up to her, slowly seeping into her bones. She's more than ready to put this case behind her and sleep.

"Okay. Enough of this. I'm going home," she says, getting up. "You should do the same," she adds, nudging his knee.

"About that."

Jane's blank face, wild eyes concealed in a sudden, careful study of dispassionate restraint, makes her pause. She didn't notice the way he carried himself earlier – but now that he's standing up, the tension lines all over his body are clear as day.

"Everything okay?"

"I, uh – "

The way he interrupts himself in a stuttering breath, hands rubbing compulsively the fabric of his trousers, sends her blood pressure sky-rocketing.

"I was thinking I'd take a few personal days."

"What's wrong?" she asks, the underlying thought – _what did you do?_ – exposed in her worried voice tones.

He shakes his head, lips curving at the sides, but his restless eyes betray the cover-up. She doesn't let herself be taken in by the appearances of normality, crosses her arms on her chest.

"Nothing is _wrong_. I just need a few days," says Jane, a bit more convincingly this time. "It's already been arranged with Minelli. I'll be back on Monday."

She bites her lip.

"Are you going anywhere?"

"What is it with the third degree?" he chuckles – but she doesn't miss the hint of tense annoyance.

"It's just – you never take days off."

"I took three weeks last year!"

"You were on suspension," she deadpans.

He raises a finger, suddenly grinning – genuinely this time.

" _Mandated leave_."

"Are we really having this conversation again?"

Jane rocks lightly on his feet, a self-soothing motion rather than an excited one, but he seems more relaxed already – enough for her to smile back, tone down her own worry a little.

"Okay. Well – I'm leaving. Enjoy your time off."

"Don't worry, Lisbon. I'll be back before you know it. Can't leave you in the lurch with five open cases, can I?"

"What would we ever do without you?" she answers, rolling her eyes.

"I ask myself the same question every day," he teases, following her to the elevator.

She bumps his shoulder. Playful, he bumps back. She isn't surprised when he escorts her to the car, glancing at her now and them with this intensity she should be familiar with, but never quite got used to.

"Try to avoid poisoned coffee while I'm gone, will you?" he says, dangling her key cars on a finger.

"Hey! Give me that!"

"It's entirely too easy to pick your pockets, Lisbon. We'll have to work on that."

"You know, most people are sensible enough to avoid picking a cop's pockets in the first place!"

He grins.

"I'm not most people."

"Yes, you've made that clear. Repeatedly."

"And that's why you like me."

She throws an amused glance around – they're alone in the parking lot.

 _To hell with it._

"You make it work," she answers with a smirk.

The surprised flutter of his eyelashes is even more satisfying than expected. She takes advantage of his speechlessness to slip into the car.

"See you on Monday, Jane."

He shakes his head, a wry expression on his face.

"Good night, Lisbon."

A smile, then she drives away. She cannot wait to reach her bed.

And one day, _one day_ she'll have to reflect on _how_ , on _why_ insinuations about Jane make her angry while insinuations about Sam just make her laugh.

But not today, she thinks, clenching her left hand into a fist.

 _Not today._

* * *

The rain cloud follows him from Sacramento all the way down to Santa Clarita, droplets rapping on the hood of his car for hours before the night sky clears. The last few miles to Malibu he drives in near complete silence – the engine's quiet rumbling offers calming white noise. Irregular bursts of wind hit the windows now and then, neatly punctuating his erratic thoughts.

He reaches the house a couple hours before dawn and parks in the driveway, but doesn't go near the door – bringing his messy feelings inside would be disrespectful to his slain family. Instead he stretches his back and legs, then walks the little path to the beach and sits in the sand. Eyes on the horizon, following the dancing lights of fishing boats to avoid the silver gleam in his hand, he breathes deeply – or tries to. Every breath catches on the lump in his throat.

It's all too easy to picture Angela sitting by his side – grinning up at him, all teasing smile and amused, tender eyes as he slowly drowns in guilt and shame.

 _Talk to me_ , she used to say. _It cannot be that bad._

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I don't know what to do."

The wind swallows his words, offers no answer, and the name – _her_ name – keeps shimmering softly in the middle of his palm. With a finger, he traces the letters slowly, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

 _Teresa Lisbon._

"I wish – " he says, then stops.

There is no good way to finish that sentence. No matter what he comes up with, he always ends up looking like a fool.

What is there to wish?

That he didn't find out?

But he always knew. As soon as detective Elliott told him her name, all those years ago, _he knew_. He still remembers the weeks spent sleeping in his office, unable to set foot in his own house as long as he held the name of his soulmate printed on a sheet of paper.

Then what?

That he could still pretend they aren't bonded this way?

Playing pretend is only healthy as long as one is aware of the difference between dreams and reality. It's been a little over five years now – it's way past time to face the music, even though he has no desire to.

 _Then what?_

That they never met?

It would be the worst kind of lie. Lisbon – the whole team, but _especially_ Lisbon – is the best thing that happened to him in the last six years.

He isn't sorry they met at all.

How could he be?

With a sigh, he lets himself fall back on the beach, toes off his shoes and socks, and burrows his feet in cold sand. It would be so easy to close his eyes, pretend to feel the weight of his daughter's head against his shoulder, the heat of his wife's hand on his chest – all three of them sleeping outside on a summer night.

It would be _so easy_.

"What would you do, Annie?" he whispers, keeping his eyes open, fixated on the stars overhead. "Would you be strong enough to walk away?"

He waits, straining mind and ears for an answer he knows isn't coming – then snorts, gets back up, brushes the sand off his clothes.

"Don't know why I'm asking. You wouldn't even be in this mess to begin with."

The waves roll and retreat, back and forth, and he's grateful for the shadows allowing his mind to keep away from bittersweet memories of sunny, happy days.

"Besides – you _did_ walk away. Didn't you?"

He dips a toe in the water. Freezing.

"I found the newspapers clippings you kept in the attic. You knew who your soulmate was. You could have walked away any time – you didn't _have_ to stay with me."

A small wave climbs up the shore, pushes him away from the ocean.

"But you did."

The siren of a boat echoes in the distance. He walks aimlessly for a while, letting the sounds and smells of the sea wash over his senses. Slowly the dark blue sky lightens to lilac, then a strange tint of muted pink. When he turns back towards the house, he's surprised to see it so far away.

The next wave's retreat leaves a piece of sea-polished glass near his toes – light aqua with softened, rounded edges, a tiny piece of the ocean in solid form. He holds it up to the sky, watches the sun rise slowly through the frosted, translucent shade. Sunlight warms his skin, colours the beach in warm hues, but then the wind turns – and suddenly he feels ridiculous, standing there three properties away from his own.

 _A stranger on a stranger's beach._

He drops the piece of glass in his pocket, slowly treks back to the house.

"What should I do?" he mutters to himself – to his missing ghosts, as if they could hear.

They can't, of course. He's well aware. No matter that his brain sometimes like to provide him with answers Angela could have come up with herself.

"I could walk away. What would you think of that?"

His socks and shoes are lying in a heap, abandoned in the sand a few feet ahead. He lets himself fall beside them, but doesn't put them back on. Instead he takes out the piece of glass from his pocket, twirls it between his fingers. The fishing ships disappeared in high sea a long time ago.

"I could join the FBI, convince them to take Red John in exchange for solving their cases. Probably wouldn't be that hard."

Chances are it would be a breeze, actually. Just a few minutes thinking about it and he already has half a viable plan – one he could implement as soon as they catch a case with a potential for federal jurisdiction. A couple phone calls, a bit of showing off, they'd get the idea to hire him themselves of course, then he'd have the upper hand to negotiate. It could be wrapped-up in a week. Two, tops.

It would be _so easy_.

"But I don't think I can," he whispers.

He bites his lip.

"I don't think I _want_ to," he admits.

And it's almost the beginning of a joke, isn't it?

 _Four cops and a showman settle into a bullpen –_

– except there is nothing to laugh at, and everything to be grateful for. They have a good thing going, all five of them. He knows how rare that is. They work well together. They _trust_ each other – enough to have each other's back, every single time. No matter how he looks at it, the idea of leaving the CBI behind is excruciating, and only tangentially because of Lisbon. How could he ever find a better team elsewhere?

 _Nobody is asking you to leave, Paddy_ , whispers Angela in his mind. _What are you so afraid of?_

The answer comes quick and strong, an emotional, overwhelming tidal wave choking his mind and heart rather than his throat.

"I don't want to – move on. _Allow_ myself to move on. From you two. I _can't_."

 _Why not?_

"You _know_ why not," he growls.

The wind sweeping away the curls sticking on his neck doesn't offer any satisfying answer, nor does the sting of pain where his nails burrow themselves in his thigh.

"What if I forget the sound of your voice?" he whispers. "Or – or Charlotte's laugh?"

 _Don't you have a Memory Palace to prevent that?_

"Memories I don't need access to regularly _can_ get lost."

 _That's just an excuse, Paddy, and you know it. Be honest with yourself, at least._

He chews on this inside of his cheek. _Fine_. He can admit this out loud. Once. Only once, and then never again.

"Moving on means forgetting about Red John. Letting go of – revenge. Leaving everything behind, leaving _him_ unpunished. If Lisbon and I – _talk_ – if I move on – "

He interrupts himself, swallows the lump threatening to choke him. Turns the piece of glass around in his hand until the emotional waves of his inner ocean abate.

"Maybe if I believed in Hell, I could find peace somehow – but I don't. Nobody is ever going to punish him. And if I don't catch him, he'll just keep on killing and – and – he'll get away with _everything_. With what he did to you. To _our daughter_. I won't allow that, Annie. I can't."

 _So – what you're saying is, if you stay in close contact with your soulmate, you'll move on with her and eventually give up on catching Red John. Is that it?_

He swallows again, unwilling to answer – aloud or otherwise. Angela's laugh rings loud and clear in his mind.

 _Patrick_ , she whispers in that fond, exasperated tone he could never forget even if he tried to. _Your brain works so fast, you're leaping to conclusions again. Think about this rationally – are you even in love with her?_

The cry of a seagull startles him, breaks his focus for a second. Something in his chest comes painfully loose and undone.

"No," he answers, voice unsteady. "I – no."

 _Not yet?_

"No. But – "

 _But?_

"She's my soulmate."

 _It's not a death sentence._

He snorts.

The small piece of frosted glass rests in the middle of his left palm, hiding his soulmark from sight. He hesitates, then lets it slip in the sand. Uncovered, Lisbon's name shimmers as bright as it always does.

"We're too close already," he whispers.

And something will have to give eventually.

It's a delicate balancing act he's trying to maintain. But all this wilful denial took its toll already. And if he doesn't allow himself relief from at least some of the tension he's been accumulating since he killed Dumar Tanner, his mind will snap, shatter in a thousand shards. _Again_. And this time, he probably won't be able to put it back together.

The pieces barely fit as they are.

Something _has_ to give. He just isn't sure yet what.

His quest for revenge?

His unwillingness to move on?

Something else, equally as big and life-altering?

 _Even if you give up on Red John, Paddy, do you really think_ she _will?_

He jerks, startled by the sudden thought – tempted to look around for Angela. Because there is a difference between holding an imaginary conversation with his dead wife and letting said conversation take him by surprise.

The beach is empty though, quiet and still, and while his heart thumps a wild, irregular beat in his chest, there is no sign of his family anywhere.

Of course there isn't.

She was right though. Whatever part of his mind came up with the thought, delivered it through his wife's voice, it was _right_. He remembers the Renfrew case vividly – how he himself fell apart the moment he hit a dead end, but Lisbon never stopped, never let go, and kept him going when he was sinking into despair. How the whole team ended up suspended because they chose to believe in him.

He knows his own worth. He knows he's a tremendous asset to the CBI and, considering Red John's wiles, he's aware Lisbon doesn't have a fighting chance of finding him on her own. He needs her strength and resources, yes. Of course. He'll readily admit to that. But more importantly she needs his insights.

Without him, she'll never catch Red John.

But it doesn't mean she's just going to _give up_.

Lisbon's determination is such that, from the moment she took on the case, she was ready to hound him to his dying days – or hers.

 _And do you really think she would just let_ you _give up?_

No.

She wouldn't.

Not unless he gave her a very good reason.

Transfixed by the coming and going of the waves, he loses himself for a moment in memories of trust falls, of closed cases pizzas. Of late nights spent on his couch with the team, pouring over reports for a case. Of chatting casually with Van Pelt in the morning, eating lunch with Rigsby, having spirited discussions about Dostoevsky with Cho in the afternoon.

Of thousand of small, precious moments with Lisbon – banter in the middle of interrogations, teasing while discussing a case, playfulness at crime scenes. Shared meals and cups of tea on late working nights. Feeling her unseen smile widening under the tip of his fingers. And the less cheerful ones as well – her pulse jumping frantically under his fingers as she hides her face against his shoulder after Tanner's death, or watching over her as she sleeps off Carmen's drugs.

Leaving isn't an option.

Hasn't been for a very long time.

And moving on –

– he can still hold it off, can he?

As long as possible.

 _We talked about fate once_ , whispers Angela again.

"Yes, we did. And I told you I didn't believe in fate," he says, tracing the letters in his palm briefly, then clenching his fist. "I still don't. It doesn't account for the choices we make. Pretending there's some grand plan for each of us – no. It's too easy. Too easy to pretend our successes and – and _failures_ were meant to be, out of our control. Too easy to absolve ourselves from our own personal failings. And you _agreed_."

 _Yes, I did. But I also raised one objection. Do you remember?_

The memory is buried under so many other moments – sweet and tender, tense and sad – that it takes him a few minutes to recall that specific conversation.

"You said," he starts, slow, hesitant. "You said soulmates always find their way to each other. You said – they _belong_ with each other."

His eyes drop to his palm again.

"I didn't believe that either. Told you it was statistically improbable. And again – too easy. An ideal romance, a perfect life companion just – just _handed_ to you like that? It doesn't make any sense. If you never had time to desire that person in your life, how much is their presence worth? You cannot cherish something that doesn't have any value."

 _Go on_ , whispers Angela in his mind.

"You said it wasn't _meant_ to be easy. That your soulmate wasn't there to slip into your life quietly, that – that they were there to challenge you, push you forward until you fix yourself, make you want to _deserve_ them. That what makes them perfect for you isn't how they fit with you _as you are_ , but how you both change yourselves until you strike a perfect balance _together_. And I – "

He clenches his teeth against the fresh wave of sorrow and guilt tearing his heart apart.

" – I told you I didn't need a soulmate for that. Not when I had you."

 _Well, I'm not here anymore, Paddy. So maybe it's time for you to start listening to me. Don't you think?_

Angela's voice fades as the sun comes up, as the early morning quietness is swept away by the laughter of children out to play. He considers staying on the beach for a while longer, but tiredness is weighing down his limbs already. Ultimately he has no desire to be roasted by sunlight in his slumber.

A stray thought flutters in his mind as he treks back to the main building, climbs up the stairs, and lets himself fall on the bare mattress in the bedroom he used to share with his wife. It starts small, merely a spark, something easy to ignore. But against all odds, it grows – pulls at his heart until he sighs, lets his eyes fall open on the name shimmering in his palm.

Maybe it's just exhaustion talking.

But maybe –

– _maybe_ the part of his mind speaking with Angela's voice is right.

If things are to fall in line without his say so, maybe he doesn't need to be afraid of what lays in wait for him.

Maybe he can just continue as usual.

See what happens.

Why not?

He feels so tired. And if she's right –

– maybe it doesn't have to be so complicated all the time.

 _Something has to give_.

* * *

 **Thank you so much for your continued support.**

My circumstances have changed somewhat in the last six months so as usual, I cannot give a set date for the next chapter. But I'm still committed to seeing this story to its end, however long it'll take.

In the meantime, since a few of you asked, yes I still do intend this story to end when we reach Blue Bird. I just hope you don't mind hanging in there for the next few years as we slowly crawl up the next 5 seasons. It'll be a long ride, but hopefully one you'll enjoy as much as I do.

Cheers!


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